Operation: Make Kurt Happy
by CloveShadow
Summary: Brittany wants to make Kurt feel better, since he's been so down. So, she gets the brilliant idea to cheer him up with what she knows how to do best, but it turns into something much deeper than either of them first thought. The most adorable love ensues... but what about Blaine? And Santana? Kurttany.
1. Nothing There But Gloom

**This is a sweet, little Kurttany story. I like the way I progressed it, including Brittany's reasoning—and all the typos from her POV are meant to be how she thinks—and Kurt, at the very end. **

**If anyone wants me to continue it, just ask. It's meant to be a one-shot, but that can easily be changed.**

**This whole thing was inspired by a quote during the Kurt and Brittany skit during the live show (YouTube it, it's awesome):  
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_"One day, I _will_ make Kurt Hummel mine. You can count on it, even though... I can't count."_

The song **"Sober"** by P!nk can be found .com/watch?v=6XVrWSdCTN4_  
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**Disclaimer:** If Glee was mine, Samcedes would have been realised earlier and there would be a Kurttany/Klaine/Raine love square. The only thing I own is Penny Williams, who is an OC that I think I'm going to use in future chapters (if people want this to continue)

* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

I really like Santana, don't get me wrong, but Kurt's lonely. Like, _really_ lonely, and I'm really good at cheering people up—guys, girls, lips are lips and I have girl parts but boy parts are nice, too, sort of familiar. It's fun and really fulfilling, just doing it makes me feel good. Like other people feel good by volunteering or whatever, but I like making other people feel good like _that_.

I can make him feel good, but Kurt likes being friends, and I've been doing that. Dancing with him, being friends, giving him my project when his dad was in the hospitable, and homemade cards with crayon and bright paper for everything. I remembered his birthday—June 9th—and I gave him a nice green bowtie with strawberries on it, because who doesn't like strawberries? I gave him presents at Christmas and Easter, even dropping off some chocolate hearts with strawberry cream at his house for Valentine's Day.

Now, though, he's getting really sad. Much sadder than usual. I thought maybe if I made David Carasky happy, then Kurt would get happy, but even though we made out, he didn't want anything else. That sort of hurt, but now I've decided I'm going to make Kurt happy.

I asked him about it, and he hasn't even had a girlfriend before—_or_ a boyfriend. Since he's seventeen, I think that's a little bit sad. I remember last year, when he wanted to date me and I got a perfect record, and he was a good kisser and his hands were really soft and his nails short and round. His jeans are really tight, too, and though he didn't let me get anywhere, I think he would be really fun to do to things with.

The key, I think, would be to get him a little drunk, since he already liked kissing me. At least, he kissed me sort of hard, even using his tongue, and his hands kept touching my boobs.

Kurt needed someone to make him happy. Maybe I could even be his girlfriend.

Then, the perfect opportunity came. One of Santana's friends, Penny Williams, was having a big party and wanted us to come early. Santana was bringing Puck and Penny was seeing a football player; they didn't invite the really hard, stupid ones that liked shouting and fighting when they got drunk. Penny threw great parties that didn't get terribly out of hand, and she had a dozen bedrooms upstairs.

"Kurt," I said, leaning against the lockers. For once, I wasn't wearing my cheerios uniform, since it was in the wash and last night I put in too much of that funny powder. I had on blue jeans that could be in competition with Kurt's for tightness, and a light pink blouse that Santana got me last year.

He looked at me curiously. He took out a can of whipped cream and sprayed his hair; a whizzing sound, but no white creamy goodness, came out.

"You don't have any more whipped cream," I pointed out.

He laughed and put it away. "Sure. What did you want?"

"You're a really good singer and I thought since you sing like a girl, you could give me help. I know I'm more talented, but I could use some help," I said easily.

"That sounds like fun," he said in a very un-fun voice.

I clapped. "Great, so maybe you can help Penny _and_ me. Penny's really good at karaoke. Saturday, maybe at four?"

Kurt shrugged. "All right. I've got nothing else to do, I guess. I mean, I've already got a duet down for glee and—why not?"

"I don't know. Because you don't want to hang out with girls and be surrounded by boobs?" I asked.

"Brit, I'll come." He looked like he was trying not to laugh. "Where?"

"109 Q. Avenue, I think." I frowned. "It's a funny word."

"Quincy Avenue?" asked Kurt, his small, toothless smile widening and showing his white-white teeth.

"That's it!" I patted his arm. "I'll see you then!"

Kurt laughed again. He had a cute laugh; he didn't use it enough, I thought.

***.***

Penny had a big house, like a _really_ big house. Three floors plus the basement, and the top floor was all bedrooms that had seen a lot of fun. All the rooms were really clean and fancy, but there was barely anything that could be broken, so when the parties got wild, nothing bad happened.

When I got there, Penny was pouring three kinds of chips together in a massive plastic bowl. She was really tall, with long, straight red hair that made her look like the little mermaid from _The Little Mermaid._ Santana hadn't come yet, which was probably a good thing.

Penny actually was a good singer, like for karaoke, but it was a drunk-hobby, not a "I wanna do this sober"-hobby. Kurt might buy it and I started to fill in Penny on my plan.

Penny was wearing skin-tight jeans and a red, fluttery shirt, already dressed for her party. My cheerios uniform was taking a long time to get clean, and Sylvester wasn't very happy; she had to send it somewhere special. I had a white skirt that came just above my knee, and a light blue and green shirt that had a ton of zigzags on it.

"Why do you really care about Hummel the Homo?" she asked, now ripping open a jumbo bag of Bits & Bites.

I shrugged. "He's sad, and I want to make him happy," I said simply.

"That's so _you_," sighed Penny.

"So, I kind of want to get him really buzzed when the party starts, so he'll stay."

"You want me to spike his drink?" asked Penny, her perfect eyebrows going up.

"Yeah, make it so that he doesn't really notice, like a shot or two in a Coke."

I went to her bar. Penny's parents were always going to visit their fore-in relatives for weeks, so parties were awesome. I recognised all the bottles by colour—my favourite was a blackberry thing that had a sharp bite.

Penny rolled her eyes but poured a tall glass of Coke and threw in a handful of vodka-cubes. They were sort of slushy but it looked like they had been melting, so it was okay. There had to be at least two shots in there. Maybe Kurt would drink _two_, then he could get _really_ happy.

A little while later, Penny's funny bell started to chime. She ran to answer it and I heard Kurt's confused voice.

"Uh, is Brittany here?"

And Penny's sort of mean voice. "Are you Kurt?"

"Yes."

"Then yes."

Kurt walked in with Penny. He had a black checked scarf, ungodly tight black jeans and a red shirt with little white buttons. He was holding a navy blue coat with black cuffs. "Hey."

"Hi," I said too loudly. I had just had one shot to calm myself. I moved to sit in the bright living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows, and changed my voice to make it quieter. "Maybe you could help us?" I gave Penny a pointed look.

"You want a drink?" she asked, being a nice hostess. "I've got Coke."

Surprised, Kurt put his coat over a white chair in the living room, which opened into the kitchen, and said, "Sure?"

Penny brought over the Cokes, all with sort of melted ice cubes, and gave one to Kurt and one to me. He took a sip and after a consideration, he took a deeper drink. An ice cube slipped in his mouth and I heard the water-vodka crack between his teeth. He saw Penny and I were staring at him and he blushed a little.

"Bad habit. I eat my ice cubes. Hey, are you having a party?" He looked at the big bowls of chips and pretzels and stuff Penny was brining in.

"Oh, that's fine," said Penny easily, putting them down. "Yep, around seven. I'm ordering, like, twenty pizzas, too. You can stay if you want."

Kurt laughed, but it wasn't a very nice laugh. "Not my kind of thing."

"So, singing?" Penny sat beside me on the long, white couch, while Kurt was sitting in a black armchair with his coat over it.

"Right, right." Kurt put his drink down after fishing out another ice cube. "Some people put, like, juice and stuff in their ice cubes—do you do that?" Before Penny could answer and I could panic, he continued. "That doesn't really matter, what music do you like?"

"Mostly pop, like Katy Perry, Pink, and"—she looked at me—"Britney Spears. Stuff like that," said Penny.

"So Female Top 40, basically," said Kurt, crunching his ice cube carefully. "I've got a lot of stuff on my iPod." He straightened his leg and pulled out a white iPod. "Can I hook it up?" He pointed to the black iPod stand.

Penny shrugged. "Go ahead."

"So what about _Sober_? You know, Pink's song." Kurt plugged in his iPod and scanned for the song. "I just wanna find out about your voice before I begin."

The first guitar notes started and Penny looked like she would say something, but then she started to sing. She had a nice voice, like Mercedes almost. Mercedes plus Santana. It was awesome, even Kurt look impressed.

_"I don't wanna be the girl who laughs the loudest  
>Or the girl who never wants to be alone<br>I don't wanna be that call at 4 o'clock in the morning  
>'Cos I'm the only one you know in the world that won't be home<em>

_"Ah, the sun is blinding  
>I stayed up again<br>Oh, I am finding  
>That's not the way I want my story to end"<em>

Penny started to get a funny look on her face, like she was in pain or embarrassed, but she kept on singing. Kurt looked like he was feeling bad for her.

_"I'm safe  
>Up high<br>Nothing can touch me  
>But why do I feel this party's over?<br>No pain  
>Inside<br>You're my protection  
>How do I feel this good sober?<em>

_"I don't wanna be the girl who has to fill the silence  
>The quiet scares me 'cause it screams the truth<br>Please don't tell me that we had that conversation  
>I won't remember, save your breath, 'cos what's the use?"<em>

Kurt started to sing with her, making his voice much deeper, almost sexy. He still looked like he felt really bad for her and Penny looked like she was in hell.

I looked at Kurt curiously. He was sort of cute—like, a puppy dog, a really, really smart puppy dog—but I had never thought of him as sexy. Hmm.

_"Ah, the night is calling?  
>And it whispers to me softly come and play<br>Ah, I am falling  
>And If I let myself go I'm the only one to blame<em>

_"I'm safe  
>Up high<br>Nothing can touch me  
>But why do I feel this party's over?<br>No pain  
>Inside<br>You're like perfection  
>How do I feel this good sober?"<em>

He let her sing by herself this time.

_"I'm coming down, coming down, coming down  
>Spinning 'round, spinning 'round, spinning 'round<br>Looking for myself – sober_

_"I'm coming down, coming down, coming down  
>Spinning 'round, spinning 'round, spinning 'round<br>Looking for myself – sober"_

Kurt sang with her now, tapping his finger on the mantle.

_"When it's good, then it's good, it's so good till it goes bad  
>Till you're trying to find the you that you once had<br>I have heard myself cry, never again  
>Broken down in agony just tryna find a friend"<em>

I really liked this song and I was feeling left out, jamming on the white couch by myself, so I joined in with a great little version.

_"Oh, oh  
>I'm safe<br>Up high  
>Nothing can touch me<br>But why do I feel this party's over?  
>No pain<br>Inside  
>You're like perfection<br>How do I feel this good sober?_

_"Will I ever feel this good sober?  
>Tell me, No, no, no, no, no pain<br>How do I feel this good sober?"_

Penny gulped, then looked at Kurt, really embarrassed. Kurt looked embarrassed, too.

"That sounded really good," I said, still dancing in my seat to the next song—_So What_. "Well, I think it did."

"Yeah," said Kurt, snapping from his funk. "It was. You're—" He coughed. "Technically, you could've done a lot worse, but there were a few notes you didn't reach, like the high ones. You've got a really good voice, like smoky and raspy, so that's a nice natural tone."

"Just 'cause she's got red hair doesn't mean she's on fire," I said defensively. "You can't just call her 'Smoky'."

Penny patted my shoulder. "It's a compliment, Brits."

I didn't really get it, but if Penny took it as one, then it must be one; she didn't like compliments very much.

Until around five, Kurt got Penny and me to sing different songs from his iPod—he had a lot of female singers on there, and a lot of modern things and stuff not from Broadway—and he corrected us a lot, helping us reach the notes. He took out an iPhone, which had a piano app, and got us to hit different notes.

He also ended up chewing all the ice cubes before they were completely liquid, and he had another two glasses with vodka-cubes. Drunk!Kurt was funny, he was really distracted and when I started grooving to _Single Ladies_, he danced to it a little for Penny and me.

"Can I have another drink?" he asked, spinning through all his songs, looking for another one to sing. "Like, orange or cream soda?"

I took his glass to the kitchen and filled it up with more ice cubes, pouring no name orange soda and cream soda in it. It made a funny sort of colour. I took a sip—really, really sweet orange crush. I went back to the living room: Kurt was singing something I didn't know with Penny.

"What's that?" I asked, giving him the drink.

"_Bohemian Rhapsody,_" he said a bit breathlessly. "_Queen_." He took a long drink and crushed a few ice cubes between his teeth.

"I don't know what that is," I said.

He laughed, this laugh was a really nice one. "Oh, Brittany," he sighed. I really liked it when he said my name like that, I decided. "You're so nice."

"Thanks."

"I mean," he said, stepping a bit closer and looking at me really seriously, "I haven't had this much fun for a long time. Thank you." He took my hand with his free one. It was really soft, just like before, and just a little warm. He was almost close enough to kiss.

"You're welcome," I said, smiling.

"I don't even know Penny's last name," said Kurt quietly.

"Williams," she said loudly. I had figured out a while ago that being around tipsy people made Penny drunk, even if she didn't have anything herself.

Kurt giggled, backing away and singing again.

_"So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye.  
>So you think you can love me and leave me to die."<em>

Penny suddenly stopped dancing. "Shit! I need to order those pizzas." She ran off to get the phone and ordered two dozen different kinds.

Kurt was singing into the remote control, flipping his head back and forth. He looked at his iPod when he finished that song. "Aw, it's six-thirty," he said.

"So?" I shrugged.

He looked at me for a long time, his eyes a little dopey from the vodka. "Okay," he said after that really long time, smiling really nicely.

"I've gotta get stuff for the party ready," said Penny. "Wanna help me get everything set up?"

I went with her to the basement storage room. We took a ton of plastic soda bottles and put them in the fridge in the kitchen and the one in the bar room. Beer and hard alcohol were already ready. Kurt came to help us take the red and white plastic cups into the bar and hide the glasses and fragile stuff in a bedroom upstairs. Penny put more snacks and stuff in bowls around the house.

"Hey!" said Kurt when we went into the rec room in the basement. "You've got a pool table?"

"Yeah," said Penny, smirking at the look on his face.

It was big, green and took up a lot of the side of the room that had the little window; there was also a black ping pong table that Penny's big brother had made in wood shop. Big bean bag chairs and bright bean bag couches were all around some game systems, like an X-Box 360 and a Me—no, a Wii—and a shelf full of games and movies, and a huge TV.

"Kurt, wanna stay for the party?" I asked hesitantly.

"Kurt wants to play a game of pool and beat y'all asses," he said, picking up one of the sticks and setting up the balls.

I looked at Penny. "Go ahead, I'll wait upstairs for Santana and Puck," she said.

I took a stick, too, and rubbed the tip with the blue chalk square like I saw Penny do.

"I'm gonna break," he announced. He bent forward over the table and pulled the stick back before stabbing the white ball, sending it straight towards the triangle, making the balls go everywhere; a few went down the holes in the sides.

I just noticed how really tight those pants were. Life would be so much funner if all guys wore those kind of jeans.

"I'm gonna shoot at the solids, you get the striped balls," he said, taking aim from the other side of the table. "Shit." He stood straight again and pulled his red shirt from inside the belt, and rolling the sleeves up, fixing his hair as he did that.

"Do you need more whipped cream?" I asked.

He grinned though his hair, which flopped into his eyes.

He was kind of good, actually. After a few more turns, Kurt was winning by a lot. There were a lot of striped balls left, but only a few ones with no stripes.

"I'm gonna wi-in," he sang as he sent the yellow one into a hole.

"Yeah, course," I said, still noticing how tight those pants were.

He turned around to face me. He was taller than me now; he had grown a lot. His hair was messed up, even though it was trying to stay in shape, but he looked really happy. Like, really, _really_ happy. Happier than I had ever seen him. Awesome.

He smiled that nice, nice smile. "Then, shoot at the black eight ball and we can go upstairs."

I did, since it was only an inch or two from a hole in the side, and when I turned around I saw him looking at my skirt. "You like it?" I asked, twirling.

"Yeah," he said quietly, still looking at it. "I do." Then, he met my eyes and blushed, looking down.

I took the elastic from my hair and let it down. "You wanna do something?" I asked carefully.

"Kind of," he admitted. "Well, no, actually. I mean, I'm _gay_."

"So what?" I said, moving a little closer. "You can like guys and girls. I do."

His head snapped up. "_What_?"

"Yeah." I found it funny that he was so surprised. "Guys are awesome, 'cause when you're with them you can feel all protected and safe and stuff. Girls are soft, though, and warm and... _so_ _nice_."

"Really?" he whispered. He looked so worried, almost scared, really, really—not weak but something like it. Santana said it once. "Vulnerable", that was it. He had pretty eyes, too. Blue-ish, green-ish, but really clear. Like glass.

"Yeah," I said again. I took his hand, his soft, little hand. "So, you wanna do something?"

He took a deep breath and slowly nodded. "I do."

I looked down. Yeah, he did. When I looked up, his lips were pressed hard against mine. I put my arms around his neck. My fingers got into his hair and I was surprised that his hair wasn't completely stiff and hard; it was really soft and thick. His hands went on my hips and pulled me a little closer.

I broke the kiss. His face was all flushed but there was a light in his eyes and he was smiling really big.

"You wanna go to a bedroom? I won't do anything bad, trust me."

All the dark confusion left his face and he laughed. "Brittany, I don't think you even _could_ do something bad."

That really warmed me up.

I took him upstairs. Upstairs there was Santana, Puck and Penny's boy, some hulking black football player, and a few other cheerios, like Maria and Jenni. None of them noticed except for Penny, who looked at me sort of funny, but didn't stop me from taking Kurt to a spare bedroom. Santana glimpsed me going upstairs and I heard her voice.

"Brittany has a guy already?" she asked meanly. We had had a fight and when we fought, we were really mean to each other and there were no sweet lady kisses. Other girls weren't awesome like her.

Kurt looked sort of hurt, but I squeezed his hand. "Don't worry. This time, it's for you, not me or my record." He looked much happier when I said that.

I opened the nearest bedroom and took the sign on the doorknob and turned it around. Now, it was bright red and said _OCCUPIED_; you could buy them at the dollar store. Inside there was a big bed with clean white sheets and a matching wooden dresser that was never used. All the rooms were the same, where the lampshades matched the covering on the windows and it looked like a hotel room.

I led Kurt in, and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. He was still standing by the door, even though it was already closed and locked.

"What's wrong?" I asked, swinging my legs; the beds were so tall that my feet didn't quite reach the ground.

"I wanna do this, really," he said, pleading with his eyes. He sat beside me. "But there's something that's saying 'no' and I don't know what that is."

"Then why not ignore it?" I asked.

"'Cause it's a bad feeling," he said, confused.

I scooted closer and put my hand on his back and started rubbing between his shoulders. "I can make that go away," I promised softly.

He looked at me again with those beautiful sad, worried, scared eyes. "Should I?" he whispered.

"I wanna do this for _you_," I said again. "I wanna make you feel good. This is two friends having fun." He smiled really big, showing his teeth. "Unless you want to be something more," I added in his ear.

He slowly put his hand on my bare knee, edging his thumb under the bottom of my skirt. Something about the way he did it, or the fact that it was the incredibly sexless Kurt Hummel, made it feel much better than it should have.

"I don't know anything about—about _this_," he muttered, embarrassed.

"You're doing great," I said, putting my lips on his neck and kissing up his jaw. He made a little "mmm" sound. His hand moved up my leg, under my skirt. He stopped around mid-thigh and just felt the soft skin around there.

My lips got near his lips, and he turned his head and met them. His lips were nearly as soft as his hands. They tasted like sharp oranges, and he was a much better kisser than I thought he would be, or remembered from last time.

We fell backwards on the bed and I decided to not go on top of him; I didn't want to scare him off with just one measly kiss. I liked kissing him. His hand went to my waist and stopped on the curve of my hip. His hand went all over my side and back, feeling the curves—even the ones that marked me as definitely _not-boy_. I put my hand on his chest and played with the little white buttons, opening the first two easily.

Seriously, it was like making out with a girl. Everything was soft and warm and really nice.

He nipped at my lips a little, carefully poking with his tongue. I followed through, hoping I wasn't pushing the boundaries. I don't think I was, or something cracked in him, because Kurt pushed me back on the bed and laid on top of me.

I changed positions and straddled his crotch. I looked at him from above. His hair was completely standing on end. His shirt a little unbuttoned to show flushed skin. His whole face was red, his glass eyes wide. His lips were so pink and turned into a smirk.

He was so hot.

His hands were still on my hips, slowly tracing circles under my shirt, bringing it up higher and higher.

I went in for another kiss.

* * *

><p>I woke up with a bad headache. I tried to move my arm, but it was trapped by...<p>

"Oh, God," I whispered. It wasn't my best comeback, but what do you say when you wake up next to Brittany with no shirt or—_pants_? Again: Oh, God.

Brittany was sleeping like an angel, her blond hair free around the pillow like a halo. Her face was so peaceful and innocent, instead of blank and unknowing when she was awake. She was curled up next to me, clinging to my arm. I tried to move it, but she squirmed a little.

That was when I realised she didn't have any clothes on either. Her—her breast was pressed against my arm and her leg was over both of mine; her... _parts_ very warm and damp against my leg.

_God, I can't even _think_ the words, what happened?_

I shrieked like a little girl.

Her eyes opened and a bit of awareness came into her face. "Morning, Kurt," she said in that pleasant, easy voice she had. She stretched out and took her leg from mine, bouncing on the bed a little as she moved away. "What do you remember from last night?" she asked, worry and a little fear coming into her face.

I stretched my memory and found—

"Oh, God," I said again.

Brittany sat up, the duvet coming off her top half, exposing her breasts. I tried not to look at them, and focused on her face. She looked genuinely concerned. "Kurt, did I do something bad?"

I pulled the blanket closer to my chest. "Oh, yeah."

I instantly felt terrible. Brittany looked ready to cry. "You said I could never do something bad," she whimpered. "But, I'm really, really sorry."

"Did you—did we have—?" I could barely finish the sentence. "Sex?"

Brittany looked down. "Kurt, I'm really sorry. You were so sad and I thought—"

Blood pounded in my ears. I didn't hear any more; for the first time in my life, I could hear my blood rushing through my veins. Oh, God. I wasn't a virgin. I lost it to a _girl._ To _Brittany_. This was not happening. It couldn't be. How had I even managed to do it? Was I really not gay? Was I—god forbid—_bi?_ Bisexual didn't even exist, it was either boys or girls, so did I—was I really straight?

"Protection?" I asked, numb.

When Brittany frowned I felt my stomach turn. I remembered Puck. Quinn. Last year. Oh, God. Oh, God! "My mom gave me this pill I take, but I don't like condoms. They feel funny."

My blood slowed a little bit.

I remembered that I had come to Penny's place to teach them how to sing—I did, I remembered singing Pink and Madonna, and Taio Cruz, and Queen. Penny had a great voice. She was having a party. I had helped set it up, but I hadn't had anything to drink. I had some super sweet orange Crush and Coke, no, Diet Coke; it had that funny taste that diet drinks have. Then, we played pool—Brittany and I did, at least. I won easily. Pool was all math, angles and stuff, so easy.

And then she was just... _there_. She looked fantastic, no, it was more specific than that. Gorgeous. No, not quiet. Hot. Oh, God. Maybe even a little sexy? Oh, God! I kissed her. _I_ kissed_ her._ I—

"Kurt," said Brittany softy, putting her hand on my shoulder. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"You're too nice to want to hurt anyone," I said bitterly. This was _my_ fault, not sweet, innocent little Brittany's.

Her hand touched my face. I didn't realise I was crying, at least a tear had leaked out. She wiped it away.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to make you happy," she said simply, kindly.

I covered her hand with mine. More details came from last night. The biggest, most explosive ecstasy I had ever felt, so strong that nothing mattered except the blond girl and that I was making her feel the same way. The different ways she made me feel that and the ways I got to make her shiver with that liquid fire.

"You did," my mouth said without my brain's permission. "You so, _so_ did."

Brittany's little mouth turned up in a little smile. "Really?"

I couldn't help it, and smiled back at her.

Brittany hugged me. She couldn't really, but she put her face in my shoulder and her arms went around my neck. Her breast was against my chest, squishy and warm. "I helped?" she asked. "You looked so miserable without anyone, with so many people hating you. I wanted to make you happy. Sorry."

"That's not a crime." I sighed. "I just—I'm gay, so I'd kind of wish you were a boy."

Brittany let go and looked at me. Her eyes sparkled a little.

"You're a great friend, I just don't like you _that_ way," I clarified.

"Friends can do this, too," she said. "Besides, I told you last night, you can like boys _and_ girls. I do."

I grimaced. "I'm just having a life-changing revelation. I've built my life believing I'm gay. I knew if I was a gay guy, it'd be okay if I liked—you know, fashion, Broadway, interior design, cooking. Now, if I'm bi, what's bi?"

"Liking boys and girls," said Brittany with a shrug. "Don't label yourself. That's way worse than other people doing it to you. Just, do what you like."

I stared at her. I couldn't believe it. My world had crashed around my ears, and she had offered me a new personal mantra. Sweet, inept, innocent little Brittany knew how to rebuild my world? I was still trying to work out my attraction to her, that might have been the reason. She was smarter than people gave her credit for.

Maybe... If I tried to kiss her again, see if I really felt sparks, because the night before was a regular firework show.

I leant forward and pressed my lips on hers without warning, before I could change my mind. I could practically taste her surprise. But her lips were almost hot, and her skin was toasty warm. Her hands on my shoulders, by comparison, were cool. If last night was a firework show, this was every Fourth of July there ever was. My brain melted and oozed out my ears at the feeling.

Her breasts squished against my chest as she inched closer, and her hand slipped under the covers to my—

"Ugh. Stop." I broke the kiss.

"Sorry. Off-limits?" She licked her lips. "You _loved_ it last night."

"Do—I mean, can we wait a little bit?" I asked. "I didn't think you'd be my taste in girls, but—maybe a date?"

"Awesome. Breadstix, eight, tonight?" she asked, smiling, still in my arms. How comfortable she was being this close to me gradually made me more comfortable with this.

That gave me a whole day to consider what being bi meant. Being with her, though, right here, made me not care. As soon as I was in my bedroom, working onthe chorography for _Le Jazz Hot_, it was going to haunt me.

I nodded. "Okay. Great," I said breathlessly. "Dinner. Great. What's your number?"

Brittany laughed and she said it was in her phone. She got up and I closed my eyes from habit, just knowing she had no clothes on.

"Could you get dressed?" I asked tentatively.

"I am," she said.

"I mean, if I'm seriously going to try girls, I'd rather not be a man-whore. I wanna, you know, have a girlfriend. Do this right."

"Like _Gossip Girl_," said Brittany understandingly. She laughed again. "I have clothes on now."

I opened my eyes hesitantly. She had a white skirt and bra on. "Clothes" my ass. My mouth went dry and I wasn't sure how I had enough blood to rush to my groin when all of it flooded my face.

Brittany pulled her shirt back on and smirked a little and the look on my face. "My phone's downstairs," she said, blowing me a kiss and leaving.

I took advantage of the time and instantly found my boxers and put them on. I hunted for my other clothes; my shirt (minus the top button) was still in the bed and I had been lying on it, my jeans were in front of the door like a mat, I completely lost my scarf and my coat was downstairs. At least I was covered.

I sat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how this affair with Brittany was changing me, or if I had always been this way and only just discovered it. I mean, I had been in love with Finn and hopelessly thought Eric Dane was dreamy—gay. Sleeping with (and hitting all the bases with) Brittany—straight, straight, straight. I had fun, too, so that _had_ to make me bi.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

I sat up so sharply I nearly had whiplash. "You've got to be kidding!" I said waspishly. "What are you doing here, Santana?"

"Looking for Brittany, she came in this room last night." Santana stood there, in a black knit dress that even Kurt admitted looked good on her, with knee-high black boots and a drink in hand. "Oh, were _you_ the boy she dragged in here? Lucky Kurtsie."

"How many guys did you do last night, Satan? Five?"

"Hmm. Just three." She smirked. "You did not do Brittany sober, did you? If you did and are thinking of switching teams, give me a call, Porcelain, 'cause I heard Brits screaming downstairs."

"I—" I closed his mouth and frowned.

No... it couldn't be. That Coke. It was bitter because it was diet and Diet Coke tastes awful, and the ice cubes were saturated with it. And, my headache. I just thought that was what you got after sex, and that my gay side was so repulsed by being with a girl it made my stomach turn.

_Hangover._

"Food for thought," said Santana, leaving. "Even drunk, I wouldn't mind that call."

A minute later, Brittany came back with her phone. "Sorry, but here's my number. I can never—"

"Did you get me drunk last night?" I asked dumbly.

Brittany looked at me for a long time. "No."

"Did you put anything in my drink?"

"Ice cubes?" She shrugged.

I rolled my eyes. "Was it Diet Coke or just Coke?"

"Lime Coke, actually," she said. "Penny loves Lime Coke, there's tons of it in the house."

I felt a little better, but there was still a nagging feeling in the back of my head. "Was there any alcohol in my drink?"

"Just a little." She shrugged again.

My entire body went cold. "What?" I asked.

"Penny's ice cubes always have a bit of vodka in them," she said casually. "You're not hungover, are you?"

I tried to stand up but the room spun and I sat down again. "Brit, I'm gonna ask you this once and I want you to be very, very truthful. Did you intentionally get me drunk?"

"I don't know what that means."

I groaned in frustration. "Did you know that that vodka would get me drunk?"

"I wanted you tipsy, not—"

"Oh, my God! Brittany!" I stood up. "Do you _know_ how much you've made me question my whole life?"

"I wanted to make you feel good, not make you angry," she said, almost cowering by the door.

The pathetic sight calmed me a little.

"You weren't drunk this morning, when you kissed me," she said in a very small voice. "And I really like you."

I stared at her. That was true. How I felt when I saw her in a bra and short skirt, how the fireworks went off when we kissed. That was sober. One hundred percent.

"Can—can you kiss me now?" I asked apologetically. I couldn't believe what I was saying.

Brittany came forward like a frightened animal, but stood on her tiptoes to reach my lips. I tried not to analyze the kiss, or the way her hands played with my hair, or the way one could barely put a magazine between us. I could still feel it, the heat burning up in me. The affection, the knowledge that it was sweet, nice, caring Brittany who never meant to hurt me, who just wanted to make me feel better.

It was even better than the night before, where it was all animalistic lust and vodka tipsiness. It was better than earlier, when it was just a confirmation of my feelings, when I was uncomfortable being naked and that close. This was the start of something, and, no matter how much else I didn't know, I knew that I liked this and breaking apart to see Brittany made it all better.

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><p><strong>A little romantic Kurt-ish thinking to finish up! So, whatdaya think: continue, not, ideas for future chapters?<strong>


	2. If You Want It, You Already Got It

**Okay, wow. 12 reviews under a week. To the anonymous reviewers: thank you, really, especially "Strawberry". To the other users: thank you so much, for the favouriting and the story alerts. If anyone wants to give ideas or suggestions, I wouldn't mind since I truly planned this to be a one-shot.**

**Just under 1000 hits. Mind boggling. For me, at least. I meant this to sort of be a cracky one-shot. Huh.  
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_My life is over._

I groaned out loud and scribbled madly over the scrap paper I had been using to choreograph _Le Jazz Hot_. The whirlwind of black ink looked so much better; my ideas were terrible, anyways. I couldn't work in this state.

It was nearly two and I had three things down, one of them being that I would dress as both Victor and Victoria. And I already knew I would do that. My date was in six hours—my first date, but that wasn't why I was freaking.

It was with a girl. Brittany. She was nice, sure, she had perfect intentions. A little dumb blond but so much smarter than I gave her credit for.

_"Don't label yourself. That's way worse than other people doing it to you. Just, do what you like."_

Who knew doing what you wanted was so fucking hard?

I had known I was gay when I was five. Charlie Anderson had called me it at the playground when I said I wanted to sing the national anthem at a baseball game—with a girl's sparkly dress and heels. Being "gay", whatever that was, felt right and as I got older I let myself think about guys like that, but what if girls were fair game, too? What then, would I need to join the football team again, listen to Mellencamp or, god forbid, Journey?

_"Don't label yourself. That's way worse than other people doing it to you. Just, do what you like."_

My head was beginning to really hurt but I wasn't sure if that was from stress, my whole world being turned on its head, or from the vodka Brittany drugged me with last night. Maybe I could handle waking up to her if I had some clothes on, or if I knew I was still a virgin. Making out, first, second, even third base would have been fine, because there was no lasting damage—either physical or psychological.

Away from Brittany and her "cool with anything" demeanour, I was freaking hard. Because what if Brittany and I didn't work out? Or, what if we did? If we didn't, would I go after boys, try to convert Sam—who seemed on the cusp of realising himself—or girls? What did I even like in girls? Brittany was sort of cute, blond hair, blue eyes, innocent smile, but I wasn't sure if I was okay with being the "top" in a relationship. With guys, you could switch, with girls, it was always going to be me who was in control—right?

I threw my pen at the wall, where it bounced off and landed on the steps. I looked closer and groaned again. A black mark was on the immaculate eggshell paint. I went to the washroom and gently wet a paper towel.

Several minutes of scrubbing later, when the line was only a faint grey mark, I realised how gay this was. I had decorated the room, spent weeks working on a colour palate that would flatter my natural looks, months went to organising my sparse fund and running through town, looking for clearance sales for the right pieces and putting it all together. I had gotten lucky; an independent furniture store was having a going-out-of-business sale and I got the chair, sofa and glass coffee table for under two hundred and fifty.

My music collection included the CDs and records from most Broadway shows, and my movies consisted of romantic comedies, big dramas or bootleg shows, not to mention the 1950s and '40s classic cheesy romances I kept for rainy days. Every season of _Grey's Anatomy_ had its own shelf, the boxes opened and spread to show the inside posters. My closet was easily worth three thousand, yet due to my dedication of searching for sales, I got it all for under one thousand. Most nights, I cooked and it rarely was something with less than four syllables—saffron stew was an exception. On Dad's birthday and on special occasions, I got up an hour early to make breakfast, complete with French toast, homemade muffins in three flavours and pancakes.

I was _gay_. I had constructed my whole life around that one fact, and Brittany ripped it from me in one night.

I threw the used paper towel in the white wicker basket and sighed. That wasn't fair. She had, but it wasn't fair to accuse her. I couldn't let myself get angry at her. Brittany always had the best intentions. She was so innocent and _pure_ in the most basic way; it was charming and endearing.

She always did what she thought was right and the only thing she had wanted was to make me happy. I was, before all the sex and bedroom stuff, when I was just hanging out and singing and playing pool. I had a great time, I could let go of the stress of life.

Part of that stress was being gay and hated for it. Maybe I was still gay, but had a—a certain _thing_ for Brittany. Like a fetish.

I _had_ to convince myself that whatever feelings I had for Brittany, they were for the person itself, who she was, instead of what body that person happened to come in. If I didn't—I couldn't stand to break Brittany's heart, and I wasn't known for being gentle. I was blunt, honest, and incredibly long-winded, and none of those things would help in a break-up, especially with Brittany.

I felt a little better. I was still confused, unsure how the rest of my life would change (or if it even should), but now I had a goal: to make me believe that Brittany was Brittany, she just also happened to be a girl.

She was a very pretty girl, too. I was never "Ew—girls!" gay, and I saw that women could be beautiful, I just never considered them to be sexy. I remembered what I thought when Brittany was just there in a white bra and her mini-skirt—I had to stay away from the soft, easy words, like "pretty" and "nice" and "beautiful"—she was sexy.

I mentally cringed at putting that sentence together. Sex was _not_ something I was comfortable with. Romance was good, it was simple, just a little sexy but classy.

I sighed.

_"Don't label yourself. That's way worse than other people doing it to you. Just, do what you like."_

Do what I like. I didn't want to "do" Brittany, but I did want to go on this date I just—

"Kurt!"

I made a sound half-way between a groan and a laugh of exhaustion. I was _almost _done figuring out who I was, now I had to figure out what I was going to do about Dad.

I heard the thumping footsteps. "Could you not step on the carpet with your shop boots, please?" I said loudly.

Dad ducked his head so he could see me. "I was just wondering where you were last night," he said in a hard voice.

I wanted to make that groan-laugh again but refrained. "I was helping Brittany and Penny sing," I said honestly. "They were having a bit of a party and things just—escalated."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Dad in his "I'm not liking where this is going" voice.

"It was way past midnight and Penny let me sleep there," I said easily, lying down and crossing my ankles. "I lost track of time and it was too dark to drive. I didn't even take my phone; I thought I'd be back for dinner. Sorry."

We both knew part of what made Dad upset was thinking that I had gotten drunk and slept with a guy. Close, but no cigar.

We stared at each other and I knew he knew that there was something I hadn't told him. He confirmed my suspicions when he said, "You know you can tell me whatever's on your mind."

_Oh, God, no_.

I nodded, trying to imagine his face if I told him I was going on a date with a girl in a few hours. "I'm hanging out with some friends tonight," I said. "We're going to Breadstix, so I won't be here for dinner."

At least it wasn't a flat-out lie.

Dad seemed happier when I said that. "Good. You know, good for you, you need a little pick me up. Take your phone, I was really worried last night." I could hear the concern in his voice and apologised again. "Is it—what's her name?—Benz, no, it was a car, right?"

I laughed. "Mercedes, Dad."

He smiled and I knew I was at least partially forgiven. "Is it Mercedes, or whatever her name is, that black girl?"

"No. Remember that"—I air-quoted my next words—" 'daffy cheerleader'?"

Dad grimaced but nodded. "Her?"

"Yeah, Brittany and anyone else she brings." Who knew, maybe Santana would tag along. When I remembered what Santana had said, my ears burned. I was _never_ going to make that call.

It really was a testament to how much my dad loved me and knew and accepted that I was gay, that he didn't tease me about going to dinner with a girl. "All right," he said, thumping back upstairs.

He had dealt with my sexuality beautifully this past year; he should get an award. He didn't try to change me, he had accepted and loved me, and made it very clear that he always would. He even watched _Grey's Anatomy_ and _West Side Story_ with me.

I just knew that if I told him I (quite possibly) had a girlfriend and he smiled or he brightened up, or gave any sort of reaction that said he was happy about this, I might die inside. I saw his stony face in my mind, the face he made when I came out. It would be the kind of death that guys like me never forget and never completely get over.

I rolled off my couch and suddenly something hit me.

What was I gonna wear?

I ran to my closet and started pulling out clothes. I wasn't even sure if I could make an outfit that screamed sexy. I doubted it. Sure, I wore my pants a size smaller than most, but that didn't mean I was sex magnet, it meant I was fashionable. I didn't even know if I was supposed to dress sexy. Guys always wore boring blue jeans and t-shirt in the movies, but I didn't even own a t-shirt, unless it was meant to go under another shirt.

I set aside a shimmery black button-down shirt. That went with _anything_, so that was one thing down. It was classy, fit me well—it would do. Black jeans would be too much black for a date but I needed something dressier.

Now, I was staring at a rainbow of pants. Lime, maybe, for brightness. No, red and black was a classy and mildly sexy colour combination. Then again, blue was more masculine. White could be an option, for stark contrast.

Then, my accessory drawer caught my eye. Its contents flashed before my eyes: ties, bowties, pocket squares, watches, chains, gloves and so much more. And the back of my closet was still untouched: coats, sweaters, blazers, vests in a plethora of colours.

This time I made the groaning-laughing sound. I never thought I would see the day that I, Kurt Hummel, had a panic attack about what to wear on a date with a girl.

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I adjusted my hair to curve over my shoulders. I wore, like, two different outfits when I went on a date and one of them was my uniform and Sylvester still couldn't get out the blue raspberry slushie stain. The other was a black and white zebra skirt, Santana's high boots and my own long blue shirt that matched my eyes and was made of some stretchy, clingy material. I think I looked really good.

For most dates, I came really early, mostly because my Mickey Mouse clock could never tell the right time, but also because I didn't want the guy (or girl) to wait for me. So, I was sitting in a booth at Breadstix, chewing on the end of a breadstick, at seven-thirty. They had been serving me free salad with some creamy dressing since I sat down. It was kind of hard to ignore the mini-toasts that were in there, too, since my parents don't usually put them in salad and they always get soaked with dressing. I told myself I would just pick them out, because I wanted to wait for Kurt, but then I wanted the tomatoes, and the leaves, and it just got out of hand.

I sighed and picked up my fork. I didn't have to eat the _whole_ thing; I already had two. My fork clattered and banged on my plate when I dropped it: Kurt accidentally kicked the table and sat down.

He gave me a little smile, nothing like his really nice one. "Hi."

I grinned, hoping he would, too. "I'm really happy you came. I was worried you wouldn't."

Kurt just shrugged.

"You should smile a lot more," I said. "You look so much better when you aren't being, like, meanly, smartly funny—what's that called?"

His smile widened and it got a lot closer to that nice one when I said that. Most people found it irritating when I asked for words, but there were just so many. "Sarcastic? Yeah."

I nodded, just as the pretty waitress with big boobs and curly hair put a plate of salad in front of Kurt.

"Hey," I said suddenly, scaring the waitress a little. "You're wearing my bowtie."

The waitress, who already didn't like me, rolled her eyes and left.

He looked down. It was dark green and had those little red strawberries overlapping. "Yep," he said in a way that made me think it was an accident he picked it out. He had a lot of bowties.

He lowered his head and picked up his fork; the light shone on his hair in a strange way. I looked at his head very carefully. "Did you put more whipped cream in your hair?"

He had his fork half-way to his mouth when he started laughing. "It's called hairspray."

"It comes in a can," I said, frowning. "It's whipped cream. Nothing else comes in a can, that's what those whizzy cans are for."

"Have you ever seen those tubs of Miracle Whip?"

I figured it was okay for me to "start" eating, so I started picking out the mini-toasts and tomatoes. "Like, ice cream? That's totally different."

"It's whipped cream," said Kurt. He really looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. I don't do it _intentionally_ but I like making people laugh.

"Whipped cream is only whipped if it comes out that little whizzer," I argued.

"I can't believe I'm having this conversation," said Kurt to himself, leaning back and smiling at me.

The waitress was back, this time with red leather menus. She explained the specials and I sort of zoned out, looking at Kurt, since I had heard them a zillion times already and could tell him the specials myself. I wondered if he owned a shirt that didn't have buttons down the front. They were fun to pop open and all and were easier to get off, but t-shirts were so normal. I felt a little too casual next to him. Whatever hairspray was, he must've used a lot, since his hair was shinier than normal. It was also combed up and wavier instead of being the usual flop to the side. His buttoned shirt was black and shone like his hair and he wore it like he wore the red one last night: untucked and rolled the sleeves up. On the coat holder was a tan coat with a funny green pattern on the back.

I wished I could see what pants he had on. I decided to see if I had x-ray vision like my cat; he always knew when I was in the bathroom when the door was closed. I stared hard at the spot in the table that, if it wasn't there, I'd be able to see the rest of him.

Kurt was always interesting to look at. His clothes were usually very colourful and strange, but they always made him look really good. Then, there was always this sort of light coming from him, like confidence but a lot more than that.

Kurt nudged my elbow, and pointedly looked at the waitress. He looked a little embarrassed, so I stopped experimenting with super powers.

"Do you want anything besides water?" she said tiredly.

"Orange crush," I said automatically. It was my default answer for that question, but Kurt laughed a little. Then, I remembered he had had it at Penny's.

"You?" The waitress turned to Kurt.

"Do you have Lime Coke?" he asked with a straight face.

"Yeah." She made a little note on her notepad and she was just about to leave when Kurt caught her arm.

"No ice cubes, please," he said, looking right at me, smirking.

The waitress really left this time.

Kurt took a long garlicky breadstick and started playing with it but not eating it. "Brittany," he said in a voice I really didn't like. He was still talking to the breadstick and wouldn't look at me. "I don't know if I'm really—into girls."

I shrugged and smiled. "That's cool. Then we're just friends having dinner. I really like you and all but that's not really your fault."

He did that thing where he snapped his neck up so fast he should've had kinks, like with a garden hose. Then, when he looked at me, he smiled that really, _really_ beautiful smile. That smile was everything: happy, beautiful, sexy, hot, trustful, strong, real. It just looked like he had been lit up from the inside with a flashlight.

It made me feel really warm and tingly when I realised _I_ had made him smile that smile. I was gonna call it his Superman smile.

I was still staring at his lips and started to wonder if he wore strawberry Lip Smackers, like I did. It made your lips _really_ pink and made them taste great. I had run out a few weeks ago and was really missing mine; maybe I could borrow his. His lips were moving, though, so I couldn't fix on them. Sound was coming out of them, too. He was talking. Oh. And he was talking really fast. What was he saying?

"—really worried you were going to be upset or cry. I knew I couldn't handle if you cried. You know, I do like you, and I think it's more than friends, like we were before, but it's no magical thing. I mean, I used to have a crush on Finn and I don't really feel that way, but it's something like it, not the same but—"

"I totally understand," I said, nodding my head, even though I had missed half of that. I got the big idea, though. He liked me and I could always change how he liked me. That wasn't really hard. "Should we look at the menu?"

I hadn't really had a relationship that lasted more than a weekend, or having them call me a few weeks later for some fun, but I didn't want to make Kurt uncomfortable, and feelings seemed to be doing that. I didn't like talking about feelings very much.

He smiled thankfully and picked up the menu. As his head moved back and forth, his very straight shirt collar moved a bit, showing more of his pale neck. I had a feeling that as long as he was sober, we weren't going to do a lot. I felt sort of funny when I realised I was okay with that, because being with him was fun, more fun than just being friends.

I picked mine up and started reading the funny Italian words. Most of the time, I had whatever my dates had; Santana liked ordering for me. We were still fighting, though. I really wanted to do _Come to My Window_ for Glee club, but Santana wanted our fun to stay in my bedroom.

"What duet are you and Sam doing?" I asked.

Kurt looked at me strangely. "Sam and I aren't doing a duet. I thought that maybe he played for my team."

"He is on the football team and in Glee," I said, a little confused. "That's both teams you've been part of."

Kurt grinned. "I thought he liked boys."

"Oh." I waited, staring at the menu without really reading it. "Would you like to be with Sam?"

He looked awkward. "Well—"

The waitress came and put our tall glasses on the tiny napkin squares. I stopped myself from biting her boob; it was right there in front of me and she was smiling at Kurt in a way I really didn't like.

She took out her little notepad and asked what we wanted, the whole time looking at Kurt. He ordered some Italian thing I couldn't pronounce.

I shrugged and said, "Same for me."

The waitress took the menus and left, a little pissed off. She made the same face Santana did most of the time.

I picked a long breadstick and licked off the baked cheese and little green specks before biting into it. Kurt smiled his Superman smile at me. "Do you even know what a linguini alla marinara is?"

"I think a linguini is a car." I said.

He laughed and I felt a little light bubble float inside me. "It's basically spaghetti."

That was pretty much the only Italian word I knew, besides Ferrari, which my Daddy kept asking Santa for.

I dipped the breadstick into the creamy salad dressing. Mommy told me that I ate strangely and that I should stop it, but I just felt so comfortable around Kurt. "That's good, then," I said. "Just like _The Lady and the Tramp_, that Disney movie, remember?"

"I used to watch that a lot," said Kurt. He leant back and his feet almost touched mine. His voice was starting to get excited. "It was one of my favourites. I loved the whole _Romeo & Juliet _aspect. It was really romantic."

And he went on and on. I sort of tuned his voice out, just enjoying the sound of his voice and the cute, excited face he made when he was talking about something he liked, even though I didn't really know or care about all the things he was talking about.

"I mean, if Disney was going to make another movie like a Shakespeare play, it should be _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. That's about this fairy that makes everyone fall in love with the wrong people, and it's like a TV drama."

"Maybe we could see it one day," I said, leaning my head on my hand.

After a moment, he got this really nice look on his face. "Sure. I have it on DVD. I could translate the old English."

Kurt was really easy to talk to, mostly because you could let him talk forever and you didn't need to say anything, but also because even though I didn't get everything he was saying, he seemed relaxed. He looked like he was almost at the spot when he was in Penny's basement, where he was completely enjoying himself and that made me feel really good. He looked sort of like a cartoon and not really like himself, but he seemed so much better like this, like healthier.

I decided now might be a good idea to ask a question I had always wondered. "What're all those musicals that you're talking about?"

Kurt looked like I had just insulted his cat. "Musicals are epic movies where the characters sing and dance to songs that further the storyline."

"Like...?"

He nearly spit out his Lime Coke. "_Wicked, West Side Story, RENT, Sweeny Todd, Evita—Hairspray?_ That was a movie, like, three years ago. It's not really my thing, but if _Wicked _ever comes out with a movie, I think you'd like it. It's, like, _The Wizard of Oz_ before Dorothy came."

"With the Munchkins?" I asked. I think I remembered the movie.

"The songs are awesome. I'll give you _Popular_, maybe. Anyways, _Wicked_'s about..."

And off he went.

I absently ate my salad and breadsticks, which kept getting refilled by the waitress, who seemed to get more and more annoyed that Kurt wasn't paying attention to her. _Wicked_ didn't sound too bad, actually, and when Kurt started singing _Defying Gravity_, I remembered the Diva-Off from Glee the year before.

He had such a pretty voice. I mean, he was a terrible dancer and his voice wasn't as thick as mine but his was very pretty, almost tinkley, like bells.

He got threw a few more songs before the Italian dish that was spaghetti (with no meatballs, I was sad to see) came. It had a lot of spices and black and green flecks in it.

"You know the part in _Lady and the Tramp_ when Tramp rolls the meatball across the plate?" I said before I could stop myself.

Kurt smiled. "Yeah, I think so. '_It's a beautiful night, and we call it Bella Notte.'_"

"That was really nice, you have an angel-like voice," I said simply. "I wish we had meatballs so I could roll one to you; I've been practising. And then, I should ask the waitress if we can have a really long piece of spaghetti."

Kurt's ears turned a little red. "Linguini," he corrected. "And, this one looks—wow—really long." He had been twirling his fork for twenty seconds and the little line kept inching along. He looked at me when the very last little piece could be seen. "Do you want me to unravel it and try to re-enact the scene?"

I nodded, eager. None of the boys I had gone out with had wanted to try it.

He started dropped the little circle of pasta off his fork and looked for the ends. He looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was staring, then he picked up one end and pointed to the other one. I reached over and pushed some noodles out of the way; my fingers got all covered in the red sauce.

He made a funny sound, like a gasping laugh, and started to suck on his end. We both ended up half-way out of our seats, leaning across the table. There were nearly three inches of pasta left. Then, it broke.

Kurt really laughed this time. "Sorry," he said, sucking hard on the rest of the noodle, which whipped and hit his cheek. A little red line reached from the corner of his lips to just beside his nose. Before he could lick it off, I leaned forward and kissed him. Tasted like he didn't use Lip Smackers.

I felt him go really, really still before shuddering. He just started to kiss me back and even though I didn't mind kissing him in a packed restaurant, I thought he'd mind later and I pulled away and licked the sauce from his cheek.

His face was like a traffic light: first white, then red. Finally, he smiled and let out a breathless "huh". He licked his lips a little and I knew that he kind of wanted to thank me in a funny way. He pecked me on the lips before sitting back down hard, like he was a puppet and someone had cut his strings.

"I really like you, Britt," he said, with a lot of emotions in his voice.

I knew it was really hard for him to say that, so I just nodded and said, "Like you more," 'cause that's what you're meant to do when a guy says that, but this time I really meant it.

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I didn't really know what was happening. I knew I was talking probably way too much, and that my bowtie was slightly lop-sided but I didn't want to fix it in case I looked like a neat freak. That was pretty much it. Oh, and my heart was beating in my ears.

Brittany smiled really innocent-like and sat down, like she hadn't just warped my world. "She" still being the operative word.

Until now, it was like being with a friend who just happened to be a girl. Like Mercedes. I noticed Brittany looked really good but it was with more than the academic fashion eye. I felt so completely at ease and started talking at a hundred miles an hour about whatever; it was one of my more unpleasant and unattractive habits, one I didn't exercise very often.

Now, though, she had kissed me. More than that, she had kissed me like she meant it. I felt weightless, like all my worries and thoughts had gone through her lips. God, how did she do that?

I was sure I had a bruise on my tailbone, but my bigger concern lay in that I wasn't sure how I was going to finish dinner with a mouth like the Sahara Desert. Then again, I didn't really feel that hungry now.

I wasn't sure what I felt, or maybe I didn't want to put it into proper words, but whatever that was called, I felt a lot of it. At least I was honest; I did like her. But, to use third grade language, I didn't really know what _like-like_ even felt like. This was probably it, though.

I found myself really looking at her, admiring her. "Checking her out" was too crass. My eyes wandered down to her lips. They had tasted like root beer, again, but also a bit of oregano and tomato, and they were so soft and warm and sure and—oh, shit, she was talking.

"What was that song you were singing before?" she asked.

I felt blood rush to my face when I realised I had sung most of the _Wicked _soundtrack by memory. That was just because she requested it, though. Maybe she wanted my iPod Shuffle. "Which one?" I asked nervously.

"That _Lady and the Tramp One_."

Had I really done that? It was barely the first line, I thought. "Bella Notte?"

"'_It's a beautiful night, and we call it Bella Notte.'"_

Anyone would be fooling themselves if they said that Brittany had the best voice, but she had a good voice, and it was impossible not to smile when she started swaying to the accordion in her head from a classic Disney movie. She was like a six-year-old and a sixteen-year-old at the same time.

"Hold on, what comes next?" she frowned, humming. "_Duh, duh, duh-duh-duh, duh-duh._"

I was a little embarrassed I knew the lyrics to almost every Disney movie song. This was also probably _the_ romantic Disney song. Why, oh, why was _Lady and the Tramp_ the movie Britt had to mention? I liked romance, I sometimes teared up during movies and felt warm and fuzzy when the girl-next-door got that heir to a fortune. That didn't mean I wanted to be that romantic guy. Frankly, I thought what I did next was terrible, ridiculous and mildly humiliating. At the time, with Brittany looking at me with adoring eyes, I felt like hot stuff.

_"Oh, this is the night, it's a beautiful night,  
>And we call it Bella Notte,<br>Look at the skies, they have stars in their eyes,  
>On this lovely Bella Notte,<br>Side by side with your loved one,  
>You'll find enchantment here,<br>The night will weave its magic spell,  
>When the one you love is near,<br>Oh, this is the night, and the heavens are right,  
>On this lovely Bella Notte."<em>

Brittany started clapping softly. What happened next made sure I never felt embarrassed for what I did: she took my hand and said, "That was really sweet, Kurt."

I felt my heart rise from its current position in my throat, straight out the top of my head and through the faux velvet draped ceiling above. Instead of keeping my hand limp, I curled my fingers around hers and said thanks.

The waitress came around and I let go of Britt's hand way too quickly. Her face fell a bit, but I took her hand again when the waitress took our mostly empty glasses and salad plates away, leaving the fresh drinks and new plates behind.

Brittany eyed the waitress unpleasantly. I decided not to ask what was wrong. Maybe it was the curly hair. Sylvester made it clear that curly-haired people were evil, Brittany could've picked that up. She used to be sort of mean when she followed Santana and Quinn's examples.

I started in on my now-cold dinner and Britt did the same. We didn't really talk all that much while we ate, but there wasn't any desperate, awkward need to fill the silence. It was comfortable, even though I had never thought it would be. Refills of everything came, and Brittany was flipping through the little brochure of desserts. I mentally calculated and figured that if I didn't go shopping this weekend, we could get that brownie-ice cream thing.

I flagged down the waitress and ordered it. Brittany didn't protest, but looked it up in the flip-book behind the salt and pepper shakers. After a few dramatic readings of the wordy description, the dessert came with two spoons, all dripping caramel and thick chocolate brownie.

We had a bit of a spoon war over who had the last piece of brownie, which I lost. We were nearly eating the plate, dragging the spoons through the little bit of melted ice cream and syrups and crumbs, when the waitress came back with the bill.

Brittany reached for it, but I snatched it quickly. Okay, I was five dollars too high. Plus tip. Eh, that five dollars could be the tip. I had brought nearly a hundred dollars and it was well under. Even though it was irrational, I had had a day-mare where I couldn't pay for dinner and I had to wash dishes until midnight.

Brittany sucked on the empty straw, a hollow slurping sound coming out. She started stirring her ice cubes, gently gnawing on the straw. "Not too much, is it? We could always just send the Blondie back and say that it wasn't satisfactory. Santana and I do that all the time. They take it off your bill."

I frowned. We had mostly avoided talking about Santana, even when Brittany brought up the cheerleading Internationals, which we had all won together.

I didn't want to sour the night, especially since I had had such a good time, but I couldn't help what came out of my mouth. "Sometimes I worry about what Santana does to you."

"What's wrong with Santana?" Her hand went to a little bracelet made of different coloured threads. She had always worn it, but I just realised what it had to be: a friendship bracelet.

"She's kind of mean," I said. _Wow, talk about beating around the bush. It's practically wilted and dying._ "She called me a Liberace wannabe. Liberace was a gay piano player, he liked fur capes and lots of flashy rings and sort of looked like a giddy grandpa who had a dollar store explode on him."

Brittany shrugged. "That's how she sees you. It's not right, but she's not perfect. She's a little mean."

"Sending back that awesome dessert wouldn't be right." I pulled out my wallet and put some bills in the leather holder.

She thought about it a minute. "Okay. I guess."

I smiled and stood up, shrugging into my Earth Day jacket. In the end, I had decided to dress down.

As soon as I stood, Brittany was staring at my legs. I had caught her staring straight through the table earlier and figured she having a bit of a dirty daydream. I didn't flatter myself that much, but this was Brittany Pierce.

She smiled as she pulled on her blue jacket. "I like your boots," she said.

I looked down. I wore these boots a lot, so they were a bit scuffed and dusty—soft black leather and knee-high.

Her heels clicked on the hard carpet. She was still looking at my legs when we walked out of Breadstix, and I started to get self-conscious. I ironed my jeans (and everything else) personally and frequently, so these weren't wrinkled. "What?" I asked, trying to make light of this.

"I've never seen you in blue jeans before," she said thoughtfully. "They look really good, even if they're not as tight. They look kinda like normal-boy jeans, it's a good change. Usually, you're so fun to look at because of your colourful peacock clothes, but this is a nice change—but only once in a while, please, not all the time," she added hastily when she saw the look on my face.

I asked where her car was and she told me her father had driven her; he didn't allow her to drive since she had run over the next door neighbour's cat one day. It shouldn't have been that much of a surprise, but it was.

I pointed out my black Escalade on the other side of the crowded parking lot. Dad had taken it away when he found my tiara collection—they were nice, too, not just cheap plastic with rhinestone add-ons—but this summer he had given it back to me.

When I lowered my arm, Brittany took my hand and held it. My heart fell back into the vicinity of my throat. I started to worry about irrational things, like what if my palms were sweating, or she didn't like it. This was different than when she was my beard; this time, it meant something and it sort of freaked me out.

Brittany stroked my hand with her thumb and as we walked, she gradually got a closer until our shoulders were touching. "Why were your hands so soft, again? Do you, like, wear gloves with lotion?"

"Duck fat," I said automatically.

"Yeah, what's duck fat?"

"Like, duck butter," I said wildly. I was having a hard time thinking because just then, Brittany chose to lean her head on my shoulder and I caught a whiff of strawberry shampoo and something a little spicier, like my grandma's spice cabinet. Perfume.

She thought for a minute. "What does 'bella notte' mean?"

I hoped any other questions were as easy as this. I began to wonder how I was going to be able to drive in this state. " 'Beautiful night', it's Italian."

"I've had a _bella notte_, Kurt," she said quietly.

I clicked on the remote start for the Escalade, which _vrred_ to life. "Me, too," I said, my voice a few octaves higher than normal.

We detached to get into my car, and Brittany seemed very interested in my CD stacker. _No One Mourns the Wicked_ was playing. She pressed to go to the next CD and I felt blessed that she didn't change the song to _As Long As You're Mine_. It just so happened that the next CD was the _RENT_ soundtrack.

_"Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,  
>Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear.<br>Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes  
>How do you measure, measure a year?"<em>

"What's this song?" asked Brittany, duh-duh-duh-duh-ing.

"_Seasons of Love_," I mumbled. "From _RENT._"

_"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cuuuups of coffee  
>In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife," <em>she sang.

As I pulled out of the Breadstix parking lot, I refrained from gawping at her like an idiot.

_"How do you measure, measure a life?"_

Before she bounded into the chorus, I had to ask. "How d'you know this?"

Brittany shrugged. "My fifth grade music teacher gave us a bunch of songs tolearn. This one was my favourites. _How about luh-uh-uh-uh-ve? Measure in love. Seasons of love."_

She put her hand on my leg. It wasn't high enough to be considered suggestive, not low enough to be a knee-jerk, but I still liked it, even though her advances made me nervous. It was only through pure willpower that I didn't end up crashing. This could _not_ be a safe way to drive, with my brain slowly turning to mush and the spicy strawberry smell permeating the car.

"You're really wound-up, aren't you?" she asked, abandoning _RENT._ When I didn't respond, she rubbed her hand along the length of my thigh. "Just relax. I'm not gonna bite."

"Where do you live?" I asked, horrified to hear my voice was still too high. She gave me an address that wasn't too far. "Okay. Yeah, I know the street."

She opened the window a little and for that moment I believed in God and thanked him profusely. Cold air at thirty miles an hour rushed in and washed the smell of Brittany from the car. Her hair gently blew around her and I realised this was almost worse.

I tried to let myself relax and it was almost a shame. As I turned onto Brittany's street, I had let go of my concerns. "Let go" was a loose way of saying that I forcibly shoved them away.

"Right there. The blue house." Brittany unclipped her seatbelt.

It was a very square house, identical to those on either side of it except for the fact that it was powder blue with white accents. A streetlight in the front yard next door illuminated the bright blue colour. Circular stones set into the grass in uneven lines marked the path to the front door.

I stopped in front and killed the engine. I worried for a minute if I was meant to walk her to the door, then I decided to just go for it.

Brittany hopped from stepping stone to stepping stone. Her hair bounced on her shoulders and her skirt lifted a bit every time she jumped. When she got to her porch, she called me to follow. The stones were only a foot and a half apart and I couldn't stand to step on the immaculate lawn.

I followed her across the stones and jumped onto the first step. The last big jump did the impossible: it jostled my hair, unlocking a strand and hanging it over my nose. I was going to put it back where it belonged, but Brittany beat me, reaching out a hand and tucking the piece behind the nearest ear. It wasn't what I was going to do but I could just feel three words in my blood.

_She touched me._

Not a spontaneous kiss, not a drunken affair, not even a concerned smacker. It was sweet and even though I was going to straighten it out as soon as I was back in the Escalade, it was well-meant and sent tingles through my whole body. That touch _was_ Brittany.

I couldn't do the same, since her hair was already stylishly messy, but I moved forward and kissed her. She threw her arms around my neck and messed my hair up even more, her nails reaching down to my scalp. My hands went to her hips under her jacket and felt the curve of waist to hips. I really liked that curve, feeling her though the thin t-shirt.

This kiss was better than the one before or the one before that, because this time I knew that I wanted her and for the duration of that kiss, I truly didn't care that Brittany was a girl. I liked her and whatever the proper name for my feelings was it was so strong that it nearly hurt.

When we broke apart, Brittany smiled coyly and said, "You wanna come in?"

Nothing in the world sounded better, I thought dazedly. "Aren't your parents home?"

"They're at my little sister's Girl Guides sleepover," she said, reaching into her purse for the key. "Like, suppervisors or something."

"Supervisors," I corrected automatically.

She took my hand again. This time it didn't make my heart do funny things, like press buttons in the elevator, but just warmed it. "You wanna come to my room?"

"Yeah," I said breathily.

I barely saw the neat, old-fashioned house, which, considering my interest in interior design, was impressive. I just knew that Britt led me through a twisting hallway to a pastel green bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it was vaguely old-fashioned, with a white metal pole head- and footboard, and ornate roses in the wallpaper.

Brittany sat on the pale pink comforter and kissed me again. I swore, if our relationship progressed like this I was going to have a heart attack in a week. _Relationship_. I liked the way the word sounded. She pulled me down to the bed, so we were lying on out sides, our legs and tongues tangled.

Her hand rested on my chest, rubbing the top buttons. She pressed a bit harder and I was on my back. Her lips attached to my neck and the whole world disappeared. She did something wonderful with her lips and teeth and tongue, sucking and biting and licking. I squirmed a little and an unfamiliar sound escaped my mouth. God, I loved it. I loved the feel of her thick hair in my fingers. I loved the smile she gave me when she lifted her head.

I pushed her back into the bed and tried to copy her movements. I must've done _something_ right, since she moaned and dug her fingers deeper into my hair.

She took my hand and raised it from her hip to her breast. I was stunned. I was always vaguely curious, never really wanting to act on my curiousity, and now I had a handful of curiousity. Truth be told, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Her had laid over mine and manoeuvred my hand, silently telling me what to do.

She gently changed us to our sides and, looking at me very seriously, her hand trailed down the length of my torso before inching to my crotch. I grew very still, both from anticipation and a slight fear. Britt might be a bit dumb, but she wasn't that stupid. She went on top of me and just kept kissing me.

A half hour after that, I left, disbelieving and glowing, my immaculate hair standing on end and my shirt buttoned wrong in my haste. I had never thought Brittany would stop without me saying something. I fixed the buttons on my shirt in the Escalade, speeding home with my mind still back in Brittany Pierce's bedroom.

_Yeah, this was _not_ a safe way to drive_, I thought as the third person honked at me.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading this very, very long chapter. I know, I write probably very long-winded.<strong>

**Tell me if I'm making Kurt (I think I have Brittany down) too OOC. That's exactly what I want to avoid, even though I'm making Kurt Hummel like girls/Brittany. **

**I'll try to update once a week, maybe twice, but when school starts, it's going to be harder to update, but I still will. I'm getting into this.**

**Plus, I'm Canadian**, **so I type British with u's, so sorry. **


	3. Early Morning Madness

**Sorry for the long wait. I have a long list of things that can be summed up in one word: life. And homework. And flu. And high school.**

**Every time I get an email about this story, I get a terrible twist of guilt that makes me write faster. Don't worry. I have another chapter almost finished that I WILL post tomorrow.**

**Disclaimer:** blah, blah, blah, this is fanfic, and I still think Samcedes should have stayed. Very disappointed with new Glee.

**So look forward to Mercedes.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

I had no idea what I was going to do when Monday came. Brittany had loose lips and, to everyone else, I was as gay as the Fourth of July. No one would believe me and if they did they wouldn't understand. Mercedes would be deeply offended if I didn't tell her personally.

This was going to be a disaster, a real train wreck. No one could know and I couldn't break up with Britt, I liked her too much, and I was liking being her boyfriend.

I smiled at my ceiling and pulled the covers up higher. The opening theme to _I Love Lucy_ started playing. My smile grew and I rolled over to get my iPhone. That was the ringtone I had assigned to Brittany. I put in my pin code and saw the message.

_bela notay, kurt c u on munday!_

Dad snored loudly. It really was incredible that I could hear him from downstairs.

I nearly hugged my iPhone. I tapped back a quick reply, once I realised what the first two words were.

_Bella Notte, Britt. :)_

I wondered how often these two words were going to come up in our relationship and how far we were going to stretch the translation.

Relationship. Boyfriend. The only times I had ever used those words were in daydreams that would never come true, and right now, I didn't want them to. Especially the word "boyfriend" typically had a "my" before it.

I still couldn't believe that less than a two hours ago, I had touched her breasts. Well, just one, but still. That was something. And I had liked it. _That _was progress. If a straight guy had fooled around with a guy and really liked it, I would have called him bi—maybe closet gay. I couldn't have double standards like that.

I remembered when I had first found being gay challenging. I was thirteen and my friends from middle school got girlfriends and I told my best friend in the world that I wanted a boyfriend, I had known him since I was six. He got me questioning if I was gay, or not, and I said to my ceiling, "My name is Kurt Hummel and I want a boyfriend. I'm gay." It felt _right_ in a way that I couldn't pin down, and I still can't.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

"My name is Kurt Hummel and I have a girlfriend, but I like guys, too. I'm bisexual."

I felt that warm tingle all through me, like when Harry Potter got his wand at Ollivander's. I didn't know if that was a good thing or not, I just knew that it was true.

***.***

"Congratulations on getting your uniform back," said Kurt, closing his locker.

I twirled around for him, the flaps of my skirt flying up. His eyes went to my skirt and the corners of his mouth turned up. "So, do you want to plan a duet together? We can go to Breadstix for free this time."

I was already thinking about more dates.

Kurt thought about it for a minute. "It can't be something too romantic or—or coming out-ish. I can't do that," he said guiltily.

I shrugged. "It doesn't have to be come out-ish. We can do something that's not like that. Penny gave me a really good song. Can I see your iPod?"

Kurt reached into his locker and pulled it out. "What—?"

"That's the song," I said brightly, giving his iPod back. "Good, huh?"

"Oddly appropriate," said Kurt, almost laughing. He put his iPod back and hugged me. "I really hope that the day will come soon that I can walk down the hall and hold your hand—for real, this time."

I liked hugging him. He had some strange aftershave that smelt really good. I rested my head on his shoulder and breathed in the smell of Kurt.

The bell suddenly rang and I wished I had time to kiss him before he left.

***.***

I almost felt like singing _Walking on Sunshine_, despite how annoying the song was. It described how I felt and I loved that part about music.

AP French class was first, a real joke for me. I was practically fluent, but the extra credit and blow-off A+ class was very coveted among the students, and now I understood why. I had time to finish choreographing _Le Jazz Hot_, and planned to ask Britt later if she wanted to do it instead. _Last Friday Night_ was strangely appropriate, but I had already planned on an altered version of _I Kissed a Girl_ when or if I was ever comfortable with coming out. Both songs would just be too much Katy Perry.

I still found myself humming the chorus of _Last Friday Night_ as I designed Britt's costume. A gold or pale yellow dress with blue accents to match her eyes. I was already going to wear a black suit I had found in the costume department.

I was probably an inch away from writing our names in a little red heart on my notebook, but I restrained myself. Just barely, but I did and that was the important thing.

When the bell rang and I automatically went to Home Ec, I found my stomach doing back flips and I groaned. Mercedes. My best friend still thought I was a curly straw. I liked to think that now I was just a bendy straw, sort of curly, sort of straight. I groaned again. Brittany was clearly rubbing off on me. As that sentence ran through my mind, I nearly buried my face in my textbooks as what can only be described as third base ran through my mind.

What made it even worse was that Brittany took that class, too. This was going to be interesting.

For once, I was experiencing what I could only imagine was Puckermann's head. I didn't like that.

Mercedes had math before Home Ec and that was practically next door, so she was already sitting in the back, her book bag saving me a spot at the back counter. She was bent over a notebook and scribbling madly.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She jumped, but moved her bag. I could now see the notebook was completely full in minute writing, which considering that Mercedes wrote like a drunk elephant with Parkinson's was impressive. Her science textbook was on her lap and she was working on the eighteenth of thirty questions.

I sat down and started to read her work over. "The third phase of mitosis isn't prophase and—"

"Shut up, Einstein," said Mercedes, erasing question four entirely. She sighed. "I've gotta finish this for next period."

I shrugged. "Do you want me to bake whatever simple-minded recipe we're doing today, while you finish up, Little Miss Procrastinator?" Old Mrs. Turner was always so oblivious.

"Thank you," said Mercedes gratefully.

I started whispering to her the answers to the next few questions. While she wrote, I checked to make sure Mrs. Turner and Brittany weren't coming. I wanted to talk to Britt, tell her that I really wanted us to stay a secret, but that might make her talk about having a secret involving me. While she was smart in her own way—and I recognised that—she was a rather dim bulb all around.

Mrs. Turner, a short, portly woman with greying blond hair and a wardrobe that consisted of long-sleeved shirts and baggy 1970 grandma pants in various colours, finally came in and put an apron on. She had to be the only teacher in the school who went to get coffee in between classes.

Brittany hurried in after Tina. She caught my eye and lifted her hand from the books she held to her chest to wave.

"Kurt? Number twenty-four?"

"Can't you label the diagram?" I asked, a little more irritated than usual. "Sorry. Grana, stroma, external cell wall, tonoplast, nucleus, nucleolus, chromatis, lysosome..."

Brittany sat down next to Tina, who had always been the one to never lose her temper when Britt couldn't understand a recipe while the class sniggered. Britt looked back at me and smiled.

"Class, class!" called Mrs. Turner. "Today, we're going to learn about the importance of sugars and we're going to make chocolate cupcakes."

I rolled my eyes. I had easily fifteen different recipes for cupcakes, all of which would be harder to accomplish, better tasting and better looking.

Mrs. Turner got Tina to hand out the booklet for our new unit. Before she could shut the lights off and start on one of her infamous slide shows, Mercedes finished a few more questions. The lights flipped off mid-word and while I was blind from the lack of the unflattering fluorescents, I heard her swear quietly.

Mrs. Turner must've been the only teacher who still had a projector, complete with plastic sheets and smudgy markers in three colours. It squeaked as she rolled it out. One of her more boring lectures followed before she said the magic words.

"One person from each table, get the ingredients you need from the back."

I bolted straight for the supplies, while the lights were snapped back on without warning and blinding the class. Spots swarming before my eyes, I found the cocoa powder, eggs, vanilla, baking powder and soda, and milk. At least it wasn't a boxed mix. Mercedes had set up the flour and sugar bags that each table had right in front so Mrs. Turner couldn't see her textbook without standing directly behind her.

I was almost personally offended at the simplicity of the recipe. At least while the cupcakes were baking, Mrs. Turner allowed us to make icing. I snuck into the pantry and got some blue food colouring to throw in the icing, too. It was just too dull. I much rather would have had some lavender petals or white chocolate shavings, but a man has to work with what he has.

Mercedes kept up a pleasant chat about Beyonce's newest album. Beyoncé wasn't my forté and my eyes were on Britt most of the class. I remembered _Single Ladies_ and smirked as I had a vague, drunken memory of dancing for Penny Williams and Brittany.

Mercedes finished her homework (correction: she cheated off me) a while ago. We were in the unsure last ten minutes of an arts class, where everyone's talking and no one is still in their seats. Mercedes and I each had six cupcakes wrapped in tin foil and I had borrowed a cheap Tuberware container to take the rest of my coveted blue icing with.

There was one cupcake I had been decorating for the past ten minutes, smoothing the sides of the icing and cutting clean lines with a knife. I had dusted the top with cocoa powder and was getting a bit bored, truth be told.

Brittany hadn't done much with the recipe. Tina handled the cooking, but they each had to ice and decorate a cupcake, and she was bent over hers, the white icing practically glowing on the slightly overcooked cake.

Mercedes had fished out a box of Dots from her backpack, sorting them by colour and building towers with them absently. Maybe I hadn't been a very good friend. I actually had been ignoring her for most of the class, determined that if she didn't look me in the eye, she didn't know I had a girlfriend. I felt like the whole world was staring at me, like the word "GAY" that I had been wearing on my forehead had been scrubbed off and replaced with "STRAIGHT". I actually didn't know if I _had_ a girlfriend. I needed to clear that up with—

"What did you do?" I whispered in horror.

Mercedes had dropped a green Dot dead center of the one cupcake I had been icing. It was physically painful to see the point I had curled beautifully around a spoon flatten and sink like a popped bouncy castle.

"What's wrong, boy?" asked Mercedes.

I looked at her. She didn't often talk to me like that: hard voice, aggravation in every syllable. She was sassy, fabulous, a diva—she just wasn't diva-ish to me.

"Nothing," I said automatically.

"Oh, hell to the no. That ain't gonna fly, white boy."

I reached for my spoon, recurling the point of the icing. "I'm worried about the duets competition for Glee," I said. That was at least part-truth. "I don't really have a partner and I don't have a song." Truth, truth, truth. "I don't want to look like an idiot. I mean, I'm one of the most talented people in there—_no one_ can do what I can, and I want to make sure I keep that status."

Complete and utter truth.

Mercedes softened a little. "Sweetie, I'd be your partner, but Santana and I are doing ours after school."

"That's a nice gesture, but our voices don't match." I smiled ruefully when I remembered our one attempt at her house to sing a duet. "You're Knowles, I'm Tinkerbell." It was an old joke between us, my fairy-ness didn't do anything to disprove the nicknames.

Mercedes laughed. "True that." She pointed to Brittany and my heart leapt into my mouth. "I don't think Brittany has a partner, since Santana's mine."

I stomped down the impulse to ask "Why? Why would I care about Brittany? She's just a cheerleading friend of Quinn's?"

This was a Miracle—capital _m_. I had inadvertently gotten Mercedes to give me her blessing and an excuse to sing with Britt. "Yeah," I said, not quite believing it. "Good idea."

Mrs. Turner started doing her rounds as the minutes winded down. She took all the utensils and equipment from us and put them in the dish washer. I reluctantly handed over my spoon, making sure to lick it and taste the icing. Blue vanilla. Sweet and colourful. Mrs. Turner didn't even care about the blueness of my icing.

The bell rang almost right after that, and I left class before someone could mention the lack of "GAY" on my head. My locker was right outside the Home Ec room, so I put the cupcakes away and all the icing Mercedes hadn't wanted. I watched the door as everyone left, clutching tin foil clumps.

"Kurt!"

I kept my locker open, determined that if someone shoved me, I would be prepared and have something to hang on to. Not to mention using it as a slushie shield.

I smiled and let my guard down a little. I liked the way my name sounded coming from her.

Brittany came up to me and held out the cupcake she had painstakingly worked on. There was at least an inch of white royal icing on it and deep lines were cut into it. When I looked at it closely, I realised it was a K and a B with a little "+" in between. I swear, right then, my heart melted. The icing wasn't smoothed or even, the lines were crooked and the B was a little squished, but... just seeing that actually extracted a high pitched sigh.

See? Romance was my thing. Fluffy romance even more so. The bedroom was her thing.

_Good match, Kurt._

When I looked up, Britt was smiling broadly at me. "Do you like it?"

I suddenly felt terrible that I hadn't thought about _us_ at all. I had just worried instead of enjoying the feeling of having someone else really meaningful in my life.

"I love it. What did you tell Tina when she asked who K was?" I took it gingerly and carefully placed it in my locker.

"I said K was my boyfriend and that she should think about Mike more, since she was making hers for herself."

I felt like cheering just then. I was someone's boyfriend!

I took my cupcake, the Dot-dotted one, and presented it to her. I sort of wished we weren't in a crowded hallway, but with more people there was a less chance someone would notice us. I hoped, at least.

"It's so pretty," whispered Brittany in wonder, barely holding the sides of the paper. She put in on the bottom shelf on my locker, next to my hairspray.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing." With that, Brittany hugged me tight. I thought she would crush my ribs and wondered how someone so soft and warm could be so strong. "See you at lunch," she said, walking away, cradling the cupcake like a baby.

***.***

I stared at the beautiful little cupcake. The lunch bell had rung a long time ago and I was in the cafeteria, sitting alone at one of the white circle tables. They looked like mints. I hadn't met Santana at her locker, and I wished she didn't think I was hiding something from her. I had decided not to lie to her about Kurt, and wanted to think that she wouldn't ask directly.

The bigger problem at the moment was the perfect little blue cupcake.

I didn't have lunch and the cupcake was laughing at me, like it knew I couldn't eat it. Not just because of my body, but because it was so beautiful, so perfect and exact. It was so pretty and I wanted to wait for Kurt, maybe see if he wanted to spend lunch with me. Just looking at it reminded me of Kurt's Superman smile. Guys weren't like Kurt. Maybe his gayness had made him sweet and caring. None of my boyfriends had ever done anything like this. Jewellery, sure, but this was more like him, more personal.

I looked up and started to people-watch, still keeping a few fingers on the paper cup. That way, I could still feel Kurt close to me. A lot of the kids were getting food and laughing and talking. I started to think about how Kurt had said Santana was bad for me. It was just that no one understood her; I did, and she was a little mean, but she was a lot more than that, like Kurt was more than sarcastic and bitter. Maybe he was trying to say that he didn't want _me_ to get mean like her. I smiled. Aww. He was worried about me.

I had never had a boyfriend stay around longer than a month, and I really wanted Kurt to last until prom night. I began to imagine prom. I had gotten a dress last summer and tried to picture his face and what he was going to wear, or the little bunches of flowers he could get me, slow dancing with him in the gym or grooving to fast songs.

Then, there he was. I had sort of spaced out, so I didn't see him at first. Mercedes and Kurt had just come in. He gave me a guilty kind of look and I knew then that he wasn't going to have lunch with me. That was fine. There was a lot of lunches between now and prom. I waved to him a little to make sure he knew it was okay before standing up and going to look for Santana. When I left, I saw him wink.

It took all I had to not giggle.

I hugged the cupcake and took it with me as I went outside. It was still a bit chilly, but not too bad. I hurried down the sidewalk to another door and pulled hard. Santana was in the art room. She hated the cafeteria and the art room was warm enough for Quinn and Penny and the rest of us, and the art teacher (Mr. Bailey) always left the room open.

I didn't want to make Kurt awkward in front of Mercedes. She was nice and I don't think Kurt told her. They looked in class like they were fighting. My eyebrows grew together. I hoped it wasn't because of me.

I entered the art room. All the cheerleaders were in their uniforms, bangs over their foreheads or swept back with the rest of their ponytail. The chatter stopped as soon as I opened the door but once they saw it was me, they kept talking, sipping from tall water bottles with Sylvester's vomiting drink. I thought adding sand mixed it up a bit, but to each their own. There wasn't a guy in sight.

I waved and said hi. Santana turned her head away and I wanted to yell she was being childish, that it didn't matter if we sang together... because I was singing with Kurt. I'd have to talk to him later. I was just overwhelmed by the wonderful cupcake.

I set it in my lap as I sat on a table next to Quinn. She looked up from her phone at my cupcake curiously but kept on texting. It looked like Sam, but it could have been Puck—wait, he was in juvie. I looked at Santana as she discussed another party tonight with Penny and Jenni. Why couldn't she just forgive and forget? Wait, I didn't need her. I didn't need anyone—well, I _wanted_ Kurt but that was different. I could live the way I wanted and so could she. I didn't _need_ to make up with her, or make out.

I stood up and as smartly as I could, I left and marched back to the cafeteria, ignoring the girls asking where I was going. I'd rather have fun with Kurt and Mercedes, even if she was a car, than stay and be mad at Santana.

Being mad wasn't fun.

The round mint tables were all filled and the room was very loud and chattery. Kurt and Mercedes were sitting at one. Kurt looked like he was going to panic and my heart twisted a bit. Maybe he changed his mind... Oh well, then, friends having lunch was normal. Mercedes smiled wide and when she saw I was alone, she waved me over. When they were cheerleaders, I was always nice to them during practises. Mercedes especially.

"Hi!" I said cheerfully, swinging my legs over the bench, gently putting the cupcake down. "Any ideas for duets for glee?"

"Actually, me and Kurt here were just talking about... you..." Mercedes frowned, seeing the blue icing. Kurt's eyes were wide, fish-like, and he looked like he would like to crawl into a hole. I realised my mistake way too late.

"Uh, Brittany?" said Mercedes uncertainly.

"Uh-huh?" I said, smiling nicely. "What's happening?"

***.***

She _wasn't_. I never believed in God but for that moment, I really wished He was listening. _Please, God, don't let Brittany out me. Amen!_ She just sat there, gorgeous as ever, with a pleasant smile and slightly blank eyes. She was actually going to do it.

"We were just saying that maybe you should be my partner for glee duets—since I let Sam go and, well, you don't have a partner either," I said quickly.

Mercedes noticed how quickly I talked and pointed to the cupcake. "That's my Dot, isn't it? Kurt," she said sternly.

"He gave it to me," said Brittany. "I gave him a cupcake, so he gave me his."

I sent up another silent prayer/thank you to the Man Upstairs, embarrassed that I resorted to a deity.

Mercedes blinked. "Oh, that's nice. But, yeah, about glee partner duet things—would you be interested in Kurt?"

"What?" asked Brittany quickly.

"Would you like to be my partner?" I asked, trying to force a blush down. "For glee?"

Brittany sat up straighter and winked. "Of course I would like to be your partner."

This time the blush broke through and blood flooded my face. "Good," I said, appalled at the even-higher-than-normal pitch of my voice. I coughed in an attempt to relieve the extra octaves. "That's good."

Mercedes patted my arm in mock comfort and pulled me into a half hug. "That's okay. We know you're still our three dollar bill."

"Is Kurt being put on a new bill?" asked Brittany, confused.

My heart fluttered and was crushed when Mercedes released me. It was another joke, like Tinkerbell, that we teased me with, since I once expressed my want to become the first gay president. It was a fleeting dream, but once Mercedes asked if I would ever want to have my face on a currency, the whole three dollar bill thing was born.

" 'Queer as a three dollar bill' is a saying," said Mercedes. "Even though he's 'partners'"—air quotes and wink included—"with a girl, he's still gay."

You could have subcaptioned us with _awkward silence_. Brittany wrestled with her internal want to tell the truth and the desire to keep my secret. I couldn't tell Mercedes until I was sure myself, and Mercedes was completely out of the loop.

"What song would you like to do?" I asked, trying to get the ball rolling. "I was thinking _Le Jazz Hot_ from _Victor/Victoria_, and I've got a good idea of a stage performance."

Brittany frowned, since she had already told me. "_Last Friday Night_, Katy Perry," she said. "If we can borrow the stage, we can get props and costumes and act it out."

Mercedes's smile almost became a smirk, no doubt, as she imagined me dancing to _"we danced on table-tops and we took too many shots"_.

I licked my lips and nodded. "Maybe we can work out the arrangement after school." I was imagining what parts of _Jazz_ I could give to Britt, when I realised I had made a second (third if our Friday night was one) date. Wow. Every bit of moisture in my mouth evaporated quickly.

Brittany brightened up and eagerly said, "Of course. Yeah. You can come to my house."

"Great," I croaked.

Mercedes almost laughed. "Sorry, you guys just make such a weird couple."

I blinked. "What?" Up till now, pardoning the rethinking of my entire lifestyle and the nagging guilt that I was doing something wrong, everything had felt (mostly) natural. Weird? Us? Kurttanny? I cringed.

_Mental note to self: Kurt + Brittany never equals Kurttanny_.

Mercedes looked a little ashamed. "She's the blond cheerleader, you're the gay glee clubber with crazy expensive clothes... well. If you were straight, I would never imagine you scoring Brittany."

"She's out of my league?" I asked, shocked. I thought for a minute and it made sense, but—really? Was I _that_ delusional?

"Never," said Brittany sweetly, and she kissed me on the cheek. "He's adorable."

I wondered how my face looked, with only half of it red and all. My skin burned where her lips touched it, and I wished I could return that kiss. With Mercedes almost spitting out her Coke from laughing, I didn't think it would be a good idea.

***.***

On the other side of the cafeteria was a certain group of red and beige letterman jackets. None of them had been explicitly watching Kurt's table, but Finn had been glancing over now and again to make sure nothing was going to happen to them. Slushies or the like. Puck monitored them the same way, taking the time to check out Mercedes and Brittany—Britt was just at the right angle that her skirt flew up when people walked too fast, too close, and Mercedes was just curvy hot chocolate. Mike's mind was on his girlfriend, who had gone to a nearby coffee shop with her Asian friends. Azimio looked at the table, wondering if he should launch an attack party on the Fag Club.

But there was a certain boy, called Dave Karofsky, who felt a burning pit of jealousy in the center of his stomach.

* * *

><p><strong>I wanted to bring Karofsky into this somehow. I've got a bit of a storyline now, more than just Kurt's internal war and Brittany's innocent sweetness. There's Karofsky, Blaine and the regular Glee storylines will be incorporated.<strong>


	4. Watch Me Fly

**Didn't I tell you I would post this? :)**

**To the anonymous reviewer **Kurtsie**, I feel honoured that you can feel that way about my writing and I hope I don't disappoint you.**

**This chapter's kinda long with lots of stuff. I re-watched this episode so many times I swear, I can almost recite the whole damn thing. Enjoy.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

I excused myself from my football buddies. And Hudson. And Chang. Well, the team, whether I liked them or not. Bieste had demanded we spend more time as a team and made it mandatory we ate lunch together. Thankfully, with such a large team, we got two tables, one cramped with me and my buds, and then the gleeks took the other one.

I went to the bathroom, not listening to the question Hudson threw at me ("Does this mean we can go?") or Az asking me where I was headed.

I pushed open the nearest bathroom door and pointed to two pimply freshmen washing their hands. "You, out," I said as meanly as I could.

They scurried out and after I searched for feet, I slammed my hand against the environment-saving shit water tap things. They sprinkled ice water that I rubbed on my face. I was breathing hard, blood was pounding in my ears, my pupils were massive and I wondered if I was going to kill someone—like myself.

I let out a woosh of air and looked hard at my reflection. I had a square head, sort of baby-fat-like, but a muscled neck and big arms, strong legs, short, bristly brown hair. My hands were rough and my nails were uneven, broken and bitten. My torso was a square, muscularly-fat but tight, and my hazel eyes were dull with short lashes and unruly eyebrows.

I was not gay.

I was a straight hockey-football player.

I was not jealous of Brittany.

I stopped.

Maybe I was jealous of _Kurt!_

That had to be it. Of course. Brittany and me had made out and it was pretty hot, so why not? When she wanted to go further I jumped, I panicked and stopped her. Yes, if I asked her again, this time _knowing_ how far she would go I would let her, I could cure this crush. I'd be back to normal.

I smiled grimly and was ready to go back to the cafeteria and demand Brittany go out with me again. My entire gay fiasco solved and tied with a bow and a blow.

But that still didn't explain the dreams.

The little spark of hope I had couldn't have vanished faster than if someone dumped water on it.

I controlled my eyes and my thoughts all day, pushing down Little Dave every chance I got. I forced my eyes to the practising girl cheerleaders, who would cartwheel and jump and bend over in tight, white, faintly see-through short skirts, and kept them away from the other guys (though I was a little lax with Kurt, mostly because I surrendered to the idea that I was fascinated with his clothes), both their ass and their crotch. Sam, though, man, he had a nice ass.

Last year I had begun to have dreams. Meaningless ones. I was a growing teenage boy, sex dreams are a part of night-life. It used to be just shadows, not really any individual. Then Hummel became a feature. In the beginning it was just sex. Rough, hard, enjoyable, fantastic, animal... sex. Gradually, it morphed into something else. Now, there was kissing, touching, gentleness, care, emotions.

I woke up in a heap of sweat and told myself that it was at night, that I couldn't control my dreams. I even took some of my dad's sleeping pills and those didn't take away the dreams.

Now those dreams were pushing into my day-life. Kissing him, flirting with him, _being_ with him, alone, in a hotel room—Jesus Christ! I stopped that train of thought dead in its tracks. It wasn't just a dirty little secret anymore, it felt like it was written on my forehead, like everyone knew and was just dying to humiliate me.

I was seriously considering pulling my hair out by the roots.

My father _needed_ a straight, perfect son, with a straight, perfect girlfriend, and a straight, perfect law career. He lost his wife and eldest son in a car crash. I _needed _to make up to him, to be what he needed. I wasn't just hurting myself if I let this go through. I was hurting him, and Dad had been through enough pain.

No one could know.

My friends would find out, especially if I stayed in here much longer.

My breathing calmed, my pupils shrunk, the sound of my blood went away, and the urge to murder was gone. I wiped my face with an environmentally-safe paper towel and returned to my friends with a smile on my face.

***.***

I hoped Mercedes thought I was just teasing Kurt. If she didn't, I would be in trouble. She was laughing really hard, probably at Kurt's face. It _was_ really funny. I started giggling. He was so embarrassed, and I had kissed him a lot harder with much more... muchiness.

"Cringe, cringe, cringe," said Mercedes once she calmed down. She put her hand on Kurt's and I remembered she used to have a crush on him. I felt something telling me to bite that hand. "It's okay," she said really seriously. "You're still Tinkerbell. I know how much this must be killing you inside."

Kurt gave a weak smile. "Yeah. It does." He smiled bigger at me to let me know he didn't mean it.

We continued to eat lunch. Well, they ate lunch, and Mercedes gave me a chocolatey granola bar and Kurt handed me an apple. They insisted I eat, so I ate. When I was going to drink from my water bottle with Sue's mix in it, Kurt gave me a hard look until I put it down. They mumphed through their sandwiches and fruit, talking easily about music and glee. Mercedes and Santana were going to sing _River Deep, Mountain High_. Kurt and I complimented the choice happily.

The bell rang and I was almost thankful I had math. I could finally get to tell Miss Benson how the division sign look so much like boy's parts. I had a few papers with me that I drew my whole explanation on. She had been sick for a while, but now she and the rest of the class could finally understand.

I hugged Kurt before heading for Miss Benson's class. Mercedes even said goodbye and wished me luck, even though I didn't need it. I was talented and had logic on my side; she would listen to me.

***.***

"She's sort of a funny girl, isn't she?" asked Mercedes as we walked to her locker before our last class started. It was the only other one we had together. History.

I shrugged. "I like Brittany. She'll be fun to work with for glee."

"Yeah. Lunch was more fun with her around." Mercedes traded her books in her locker for her history textbook. "She wasn't like I expected her to be. You know, dumb, mean, blond cheerleader."

"She's smart in her own way," I said, repeating what I maintained the past weekend.

"Of course," said Mercedes, shutting her locker and adjusting her hair in the mirror she had attached to her locker door. "I love Brittany, but I thought her whole nice act when we were cheer-singers was just an act." She poked the loose strand of hair with her free hand again, but it hung straight down her face.

"Nah, she's just what she appears to be," I said. "Oh, come here," I added, exasperated. Looking at her poker-straight hair critically, I determined it went to the left and reached for the brush in her locker. "Honestly, this whole piece gets brushed to the left, not the right. Didn't I tell you that last year? Otherwise, it looks like curtains."

She smirked as I fixed her hair. "You're awfully defensive about her."

"That's 'cause we're going to put together a number and whoop y'all asses." I put on the fake southern accent I knew pissed her off.

She made a face and swatted at my hands. "And go on a free date."

"Yep," I said easily, adjusting my black hat before Mercedes slammed her locker. "Free Breadstix, dinner with fun girl—what's not to like?"

"Hey, gloser, love the hat," said a familiar voice. Karofsky.

Even though it wasn't after lunch, I ducked instinctively. A wet, slopping _crunch_ came from behind me as ice met metal. When he realised he missed, he tipped my hat into the blueberry mess that had puddled around my boots. Mercedes caught it and handed it back to me.

"Thanks." I accepted the hat and dusted off imaginary slush spots before straightening it again.

"Nice move," she said. She had held her textbook up as a shield; little blue rebound flecks dotted the pyramids of Egypt. She wiped them off.

"Come on," I said, determined to be in a good mood. I linked my arm with hers and started down the hall. "History."

***.***

Mercedes and Santana killed the song. The choreography was rockin', but, of course, I could have added something special to it. My own little Brittany S. Pierce flair.

I wasn't sure if I should still apologise to Santana. I probably didn't need to. After all, I had had boyfriends and done others on the side; they had known about it then, why not when it was a girl? Besides our voices together were a smash.

I looked across at Kurt. I was sitting right next to him. Our voices together would be an even bigger smash. His Broadway charm and my pop style would be awesome. Besides, he was still so cute. We just needed a song and to ask Schuester if we could use the auditorium.

_"Baby, baby, baby!"_

The last instruments finished and Santana and Mercedes high-fived, smirking. They should be happy, it was a good performance and they were awesome. I should've been Santana's partner, though.

Everyone except me clapped. Kurt clapped five times very quickly, looking at me anxiously. I put a hand on his knee, even though I felt terrible, and told him we'd be even better.

"I hope so," he said.

"Ladies, nice work, what an incredible song," whooped Mr. Schuester, pulling them into a hug.

"And, just so you know, I've already bought custom bibs for me and Mercedes here," said Santana in her arrogant ghetto voice. "Ya know why?"

"'Cause we's be _going_ to Breadstix!" they said together.

"You here that guys," said Schuester, still laughing, "you've got your work cut out for you."

The club started to go off on their own. Artie looked really sad, wheeling off all on his own, while Mike and Tina stayed in the corner, whispering secret Asian things to each other. Rachel stormed off in her little short dwarf way, with Finn following sadly behind her. Sam and Quinn, smiling and walking really close together left. Mercedes picked up her stuff and was still talking with Santana about their awesome performance.

Kurt and I stood up and started to go when Santana looked at us. I pointed to each of my boobs, then to her and shook my finger. I pointed to my boobs again then to Kurt and nodded.

Santana's perfectly pointy eyebrows went up and her mouth curved into a half smile.

***.***

"Why not?" said Brittany for the hundredth time.

We were sitting in her living room, with our iPods on the coffee table between us. I had taken out my papers and ideas for the choreography for _Jazz_ a while ago and while she liked the dress, and the song was fun, she thought I should be honest and come out. We had been discussing (see: arguing) for the past hour about the song and our relationship (the word seemed much more normal by now).

And I thought this would be like in the nineties when "studying" was code for "making out". Granted, I probably didn't need anything that could trip an early heart attack.

"I'm not ashamed of having you as my girlfriend, I'm just—I'm ashamed of me," I finally said.

"You're a unicorn," said Brittany. She looked so confused, but it wasn't adorable now; it was annoying.

"Yeah, like that isn't a reason to be ashamed," I said sarcastically, leaning back into the suede couch. Once again, I found myself in a wonderfully quaint old fashioned space, and I was too emotionally wound up to appreciate the oak and glass tables and the beautiful oil paintings on the walls.

"You're a unicorn," she insisted. "You're incredible and magical and you aren't afraid to show it."

I felt a bit touched at that, but I knew no matter what, I wasn't coming out. I couldn't. I was in the straight (at minimum bi) closet and I was going to lose the key. "You are, too," I said.

She smiled and some of my exasperation went away. "You don't need to be scared of your magic," she said quietly.

I ground my teeth together, looking for a way to explain that I wasn't coming out after one date. "Britt, I don't know what I am, so I can't come out."

"You're my boyfriend," she said, "you can come out as that."

"Yeah, but..." I leant forward and wished I could sit beside her and say this gentler. "If you have _me_ as your boyfriend, like Mercedes said, I'm not exactly hot stuff."

"I think you are," said Brittany, still as confused as the captain of the _Titanic_.

I bit back a smile as I felt myself rise and my face redden. "People won't like this—us. Sure, I'm a—a unicorn, and I normally don't care what people think, but they're gonna hurt—well, they're going to hurt you, and I don't want that."

Brittany broke into a massive smile. "Don't worry about that," she said lightly. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself. It's cute you're so worried."

I wanted to tell her everything else that kept me up at night. How I didn't know if it was girls or her that I was attracted to, what I was and who I wanted people to know me as, how I was damn near frantic about our relationship. But right then, I just wanted to help her, not unload all my problems on her. Thing was, I didn't know how to help her.

"Lord Tubbington," cooed Brittany all of a sudden.

An enormously fat cat waddled into the room. Brown with black zebra stripes, Lord Tubbington had the most evil green eyes I had ever seen.

Brittany crouched down and scooped Lord Tubbington up into her arms. The monster immediately began purring like a 1967 Chevrolet Impala (I admit, Dad fixed it up once for a friend and I fell in love with that car) and gave me a death glare.

Still petting the thing, Brittany said, "So, how about this, we'll sing _Le Jazz Hot_, but you've gotta promise me one day I can tell people you're my boyfriend _and_ we'll do a Katy Perry duet."

I nodded dumbly, staring at Lord Tubbington. Frankly, I would have agreed to anything to keep her holding onto that thing. But now, this was behind us, for now at least.

Brittany dropped him and, irritated, he went away. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard his nails on the hardwood kitchen floor. "I've got to tell you something," she said as soon as the cat was away.

"Yeah?" I asked, my voice far too high.

"I think Lord Tubbington has joined a cat burglar gang."

I sat back and stopped the impulse to laugh. "Really?"

Brittany nodded fiercely. "He keeps bringing back weird things, like tiny bags with ring boxes and dead mice, and I've seen him with the neighbour's cats who are really bad cats. He's even been practising opening doors!"

"Did you talk to him?" I asked, keeping a straight face. Knowing Brittany, she was dead serious and, apparently, concerned for the mongrel.

"I've tried, but he keeps hanging out with those cats!"

I stood up. "Can I see the ring box?"

Brittany pulled open a drawer from the end table beside her armchair, and took out a grubby, tiny gift bag, the kind used to put rings in. It looked like it had been in a dumpster, and the flower print paper had partially rubbed off. Inside, low and behold, was a cheap, white ring box that held... nothing.

"There were a pair of diamond earrings inside," she whispered.

That was some trick, for a cat to bring back a gift bag, especially considering how low to the ground he was. Lord Tubbington was a smart cat, catching mice and fetching bags, even opening doors. Mercedes had such a monstrosity who could jump and turn a doorknob. Destiny was a scary beast.

To make her feel better, I wasn't going to destroy her idea that her cat could think like her. I fingered the ring box and slowly said, "You should keep Lord Tubbingtons inside, don't let him out, no matter what, and eventually the cat burglar gang should kick him out."

"You think that will work?" she asked, sitting next to me.

The couch wasn't that long, and her leg was pressed against mine. What a day to wear shorts.

"Positive," I said.

She squealed and put an arm around me, kissing my cheek again. "Thank you! I thought Lord Tubbington was going to go to Alcatraz!"

"Alcatraz?" I asked.

"That's what Santana told me." Britt shrugged and smiled sweetly. "You know, we _are_ alone."

I nodded. "Oh, I realised that."

Brittany's hand on my shoulder became more suggestive and she kissed me again, this time on my mouth. She was a really good kisser, I thought. Then, I stopped thinking as she pushed me back onto the couch and lay on top of me. It was the first time she kissed me like that and I have to say, I loved it. Her weight made me feel her so much more. I was just melting into it when I felt a tuft of super-soft fur brush my elbow.

I nearly screamed.

I did smack the offending furball and went back to kissing Britt, but the cat meowed very loudly and made an "umph, ssss!" sound.

Brittany looked up and I almost groaned, both from the fact that she stopped kissing me and that when she curved her body up to see, she inadvertently pushed her crotch into mine.

"Charity," she complained. The cat complained back to her. "Go away! Keep an eye on Lord Tubbington!" The cat crossed onto the wooden kitchen floor, meowing and umphing all the way.

She looked down at me and I swore that there was no more beautiful sight. "You wanna go to my bedroom or stay here?" she asked, kissing my neck.

She wiggled her hips against mine and I said breathily, "Oh, we can stay here. You know, if you want."

***.***

"Who is up first today?" asked Mr. Schuester, dumping the load of Spanish papers he had been grading and carrying around on the piano.

I put my hand up fast. Despite not getting as much done the night before with Britt as I wanted to, we had the costumes, we had the music, we had the choreography and the cheerios. We were completely ready to win. No one else bothered to ask Schuester.

"Tina, wonderful," he beamed. "The stage is yours."

I panicked for a minute, but relaxed when it was clear they were staying in the room. Mike threw Tina a desperate look, but she dragged him to the front.

"We totally should have gone first," said Brittany beside me.

I nodded. "But now, we can show them up and blow the rest away."

Brittany considered, then said, "Yeah," with the satisfaction of a toddler given a Disney movie. "Smile, we're gonna win, and if not, then I'm paying."

I smiled. Brittany poked the corner of my mouth. "Smile _more_," she whispered. I snorted at her eagerness and smiled wider. "Little more." She poked more, a little more persistently, popping her bubblegum. "Smile like Superman, come on." At the comparison, I laughed and Brittany was content.

We were in the back row, the only ones in the back row, but Finn was still close and Mercedes and Santana was conspiring at an angle that they could see if they turned only a little. And Finn was giving me a weird, confused look. Considering things, I thought maybe I had a thing for the slow, adorable ones.

"Whenever you're ready, guys," said Mr. Schuester, a little annoyed.

Tina and Mike were still at the front of the class, stock-still and silent.

"Yeah, hurry up, I needs to get myself to Breadstix," said Santana obnoxiously.

"Don't count on it," said Brittany. "I'm still so mad at you, but you're still so hot."

I frowned, leaning my head into my hand as I looked at them. They were good friends, and girls, were girl friends allowed to say that too each other? Was I being paranoid? I mean, I was gay and had a girlfriend, so was it possible my boo was lesbian?

Then Mike Chang turned around.

"See I really couldn't sing. I could never really sing. What I couldn't do was..."

"...sing!" sang Tina.

Then followed one of the more bizarre performances I had ever seen. I knew _Sing!_, it was from _A Chorus Line_ but was the most unexpected thing with the crazy dancing and funny acting to go with the lyrics. We chipped in as the choir on occasion, but Britt was laughing and she wasn't the only one.

"La!" sang the instrument players.

"La!" shouted Mike Chang.

"La!" sang the instrument players.

"LA!" screeched Mike Chang.

A round of sings that Brittany took her gum out for, and then (I braced my ears)... "SSSIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNG!"

We all clapped, still laughing. If it were a contest on cuteness, Mike and Tina would win hands down, and probably dancing, but with vocal talent and overall performance Britt and I were a shoe-in. Rachel and Finn were our only real competition, but Finn couldn't dance and next to Rachel wasn't a good singer.

Now looking worried, Brittany said, "Are you sure we shouldn't do _Last Friday Night_? Tike's was so funny and cute—"

"Don't worry, Britt," I said, patting her on the back. "We'll win. Plus," I added in a whisper, "I'm the guy, I'm meant to pay for dinner."

"Thank you, Tina, for introducing us to the wonderful voice of Mike Chang," said Mr. Schuester. "Tomorrow, it's Kurt's turn."

"Like he has a partner," said Santana waspishly. "Or it even matters."

I felt myself start to go red. She knew and wanted to embarrass me. If she didn't know about Britt and me now, she knew I was with Brittany at Penny Williams's party.

Just then the bell rang.

***.***

"How is working with Brittany going? You gonna be treatin' us to some fine Katy Perry?" asked Mercedes during Home Ec the next day.

I kept my poker face, wondering how many days as a free gay I had left before I would be doing a duet of _I Kissed a Girl_. "Brittany is a wonderful partner and we've worked out an arrangement and a spectacular, Broadway-worthy performance. She listens to my ideas and lets me go through with them."

Mercedes looked down into the oven's glass front; the cheese on the mini-pizzas was already beginning to melt and ooze.

"Not until it turns golden brown," I reminded as she reached for the oven mitt.

"Brittany sounds like too good to be true," said Mercedes shrewdly. "Something's going on that you're not tellin' me."

"She's got two massive cats," I said shortly.

Mercedes snorted and I glared at her. "Sorry, I'm imagining you in Brittany's pink, Barbie doll bedroom, choreographing while two cats are circling you—like sharks!"

"They did that once," I said as Mercedes howled, refusing to mention it nearly gave me a panic attack. "And, by the way, her bedroom's mint green, not Barbie pink."

"I hope you're ready to perform," she said. "'Cause Satan's actually got us—me and the Devil, us, not me and Tinkerbell, us—matching bibs." She snorted and grinned again. "Sorry, _two_ cats?"

"One looks like either a very small tiger or a very large so-called 'domesticated' feline, while the other is snow white and has staring blue eyes. They're called Charity and Lord Tubbington."

Mercedes began laughing again.

***.***

Before Mr. Schuester could even begin the club and ask all about our day, and any ideas we might have for Sectionals, Kurt shot his hand into the air again.

"Mr. Schue, if I may?" he asked.

Mr. Schuester smiled and nodded, sitting back down. "You may."

Kurt made the four long steps and looked down at us all before he started to talk super fast. "As many of you know, I had a duet partner, but due to sensitivities I'd rather not get into at the moment, I have dissolved the partnership." Finn looked really guilty, as Rachel looked at him like she was mad.

"Okay, so who are you going to sing a duet with?" said Mr. Schuester.

Oh, he was so confused. I couldn't wait for them to see what we could do. I felt like I did when I put my fork in the toaster, looking for the burnt pieces. All sparky and electrified.

"Only the most talented member of the glee club," he said, smiling really proudly.

I knew me and Kurt were tied for most talented, but it was still nice to be told that. Especially when Miss Rachel Berry almost stood up, happy to sing with him. She made me want to bite her so badly.

"Brittany S. Pierce," he said. "I've asked Mike Chang as well as the cheerios to help us out. So, if you would all please follow me and Britt to the auditorium."

He turned around sharply and I ran a bit to keep up with him. We turned to go backstage and then we sprinted to the costume department. We were a little giggly with excitement. Kurt had this light in his eye as he found the black suit he was going to sing in. I found the light yellow dress and we found the little changing stalls.

We had stayed late after school to make sure everything fit and everything went well. Jenni almost killed me when she missed _America's Next Top Model_ that night.

Mike Chang got changed quickly, but Kurt was fixing his hair, slicking it back with a comb and what looked like grease. That day was the first day in a long time I hadn't put my hair in the ponytail, and I liked it like this, all wavy and down my shoulders. I fixed the bottom of the dress, so that the little layers didn't stick and fold all together and tangle around my knees. There were also these long yellow gloves that went all the way up my arm; they had these long strings on them, fringes, like on cowboy pants that would move when I danced.

All the cheerios were already on stage in their own black suits and top hats. The golden curtains that Kurt promised me weren't made by the girl Rumpelstiltskin had captured—you know, spin wool into gold, or something like that. The lights were all down and there were two white staircases we found in the props room. Brad, another cheerio, was working a spotlight somewhere behind all the seats.

I started to feel a little nervous. I was up first. Across the dark stage, from his own little white staircase, Kurt smiled at me.

The horn-y music started up, the spotlight came on me, I started down the stairs, I opened my mouth and...

_"'Bout twenty years ago way down in New Orleans,  
>A group of fellas found a new kind of music.<br>An' they decided to call it... jazz!"_

I was just so happy that I hit my high notes, that I didn't trip in my heels, that I almost forgot Kurt had a part. I remembered the choreography, turning across the stage and around the darkened dancers, until I got to his little staircase.

When he started singing, we got around with the different dancers, and everything went perfectly.

_"No other sound has what this music has.  
>Before they knew it, it was whizzin' 'round the world.<br>The world was ready for a blue kind of music,  
>An' now they play it from Steamboat Springs to La Paz."<br>_  
>Then, the funnest part of the whole thing: snapping and clapping to this old, sort of 50s, jazzy song. To be fair, Kurt had a great song. And now, best of all, we got to actually be dance partners. I liked dancing better than singing, but Kurt was a much better singer and could hit those scary high notes.<p>

_"Oh baby, won't you play me Le Jazz Hot, maybe,"_ he sang.

_"And don't ever let it end,"_ I sang, as the other dancers had their own hat choreography. They were still sort of dark, so it was just their outlines.

_"I tell ya friend, it's really somethin' to hear."_

Then it was like real ballroom dancing for a minute before it was back to showy Broadway. This was actually much more fun than I thought it was going to be.

_"I can't sit still when there's that rhythm near me." _Almost as soon as I was done my line, our together part started, and from here on in all the dancing was showy, Broadway-y, Kurt-y fun dancing. Especially that the music had started to get faster.

_"When you play me  
>Le Jazz Hot, baby<br>You're holdin' my soul together_  
><em>Don't know whether it's mornin' or night;<br>Only know it's soundin' right;  
>So come on in and play me<br>Le Jazz Hot, baby,  
>'Cause I love my Jazz Hot"<em>

I got a little intimidated and backed off a little when it came to his high notes. They were the only thing I really couldn't do, and he could do them so easily. Brittney Spears wasn't _totally_ right (I was still super-talented) but Kurt did things that not even me or stupid Rachel Berry could ever do.

Besides, his thing was killer highs, mine was dancing, so I had a dancing solo when he went to notes that only animals like Mr. Theodore's dog next door could hear.

Then the music really sped up and I stopped singing. My dancing went extremely fast and the strings were waving everywhere, as Kurt was lifted in the air and he did some Italian thing that started with a G. The point is: he went _really, really_ high.

_"Le Jazz... Hoooooooooot!"_

He came down from his note and the cheerios and I went over to him as the last notes played.

_"Le Jazz Hot,"_ we both said.

Everyone clapped and cheered. Rachel was the first up and I guess it was a talented Broadway people thing between her and Kurt, but she looked a little miserable. She probably knew she couldn't win anymore.

I looked at Kurt. "We so won," I told him.

He was a little out of breath and his voice got all high—normal, Kurt-talking-high, not super-singing-Kurt-high—but he looked really proud. "You did fantastic," he said.

I shrugged. "You did better."

***.***

When Rachel Berry showed up in what was either a nun's or a Catholic schoolgirl's outfit, I became a mind reader. Either the guys were thinking that she was smoking hot, which, judging by the hallway peeping Toms, they certainly did, or they were wondering if she had already done the naughty schoolgirl ala Britney Spears. Finn was a priest from the waist up, and just Finn... blue jeans, really? Did the boy not own a pair of black slacks?

I smiled to Britt, who was smirking, swaying to the strings. This was so in the bag. Best dancer plus best singer. Piece of cake. Additionally, the song was about being "born again" and giving not so Christian themes to the song, alluding to the headlines of pedophiliac priests. And Rachel completely overwhelmed Finn's rocker voice, just as I thought.

"This isn't happening," said a stunned Mercedes, who I knew was a devout believer. Quinn was nearly murderous.

Bored, my mind slipped back to the night before, when I essentially played Russian Roulette with my dad. Brittany had come over in order to celebrate our coming victory by watching TV and snogging in my bed—while my dad was upstairs watching _Deadliest Catch_. Making out with her was fantastic but I was beginning to wonder if she wanted me to go further. She hadn't made another move, but—how was a guy supposed to know if a girl wanted it?

The strings stopped, leaving Rachel dwarfed by Finn in a towering hug that would have been sweet if I hadn't imagined being hugged by Finn like that for a good nine months.

Mike clapped once before Tina put her hands over his.

"Okay, do I even need to say it?" said Mercedes, every syllable spelling "P-I-S-S-E-D O-F-F".

"That was rude," said Sam curtly.

"Like, _really rude_," said Tina.

"I seriously wanted to punch both of you," said Quinn. They all had the same tone; vaguely dazed and confused, like they couldn't believe their eyes or ears, but knew that if it was true, they were going to be mad.

Score!

"I have to agree," said Mr. Schuester heavily, standing up, prepared to chew out the shocked couple.

Brittany and I wiggled fingers, a move I taught her last night while watching _So You Think You Can Dance?_. Brittany threw Santana a contemptuous, neener-neener look.

"Well, getting back on track, who's up next?" said Mr. Schuester, disappointed. Sam and Quinn stood up, an light wood acoustic guitar in his hands. "All right."

"Okay," said Sam, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, "I just wanna say, I'm really excited and that I couldn't have asked for a better partner." He looked at Quinn and smiled.

I grimaced as I felt a tiny knife jab my heart. He saw my performance. Guess I was wrong: straight, straight, straight.

Mr. and Mrs. Blonde and Perfect took the floor; Quinn standing behind him, helping him play guitar occasionally, throwing each other flirty, secret little looks—I was partially glad we didn't do a duet together, but the idea of another gay boy was too tantalizing. The entire performance, well, it was the classic American relationship: head cheerleader, quarterback, life-long friends seeing each other anew for the first time. He had a large mouth and dyed his hair blonde to look like Linda Evangelista circa 1993, and sang like Bruno Mars. Quinn's trembling, bell-like alto fit nicely. Visually and vocally they were the blonde and perfect heterosexual couple.

_"Lucky I'm in love with my best friend. Lucky to be where I have been."_

Santana phrased it perfectly: "How charming."

It made me sad to watch it, though. They were adorable; they portrayed the best friends falling for each other perfectly. And even though I had never been happier than I was that day with Brittany, I still secretly sometimes wished I knew what having a boyfriend was like, and Sam was the only potential gay boy I had ever met. He was adorkable, sang like an angel and was fun. Seeing him flirt and flounce with a beautiful blond was difficult to watch and stomach.

Couples swayed to the song, arms over each other's shoulders. Adorable. Tike and Finchel, not to mention Quam (maybe Sinn). Brittany discreetly put her hand on my arm, smiling and shimmying her shoulders a little. I checked, but once again, no one could see us, except Sinn and they were too into themselves to notice. When the performance ended, they were still holding hands. Aww. Gut-wrenching straight sweetness.

Holding hands with Britt during the show, maybe I shouldn't be saying anything.

***.***

When I came into the room with Kurt, Santana was clicking her pen against her teeth and glaring at me. Looking really fed up, she stood up and marched like Rachel to Kurt and me.

"Let the girls talk in peace, Kurtsie," she said in her hissy snake voice she used when she was mad.

Looking at her with real hate, Kurt left Santana and me to sit down in a chair under the window. I needed to talk to Kurt again, try to get him to understand Santana.

"Look, Britts, I don't know whatcha think you've been doing—well, Hummel, I guess—but he's _gay._ That means he likes boys and only boys." She didn't talk as mean when Kurt was there; she sounded almost worried for me.

But I was sure. Kurt and I had talked last night for a long time on the phone, even though words weren't really my best thing, and I knew he liked me. He was a bi-corn, like me, even if he didn't want to say it yet. I knew it and that was okay.

I flipped my ponytail and smiled. "I know you think you're doing the right thing, but Kurt and me are close. We haven't done much in bed but I care more for him so much more that it sorta scares me than I've ever cared for someone else."

Her eyes narrowed and got squinty and I knew she was really mad. "When this competition is over and Mercedes and me win, I'm going to take _you_ to Breadstix myself and then we can talk more. All right?"

I looked over her shoulder at Kurt. He was watching us carefully, waiting for me to come back to him. Normally, with any other boy, I would have thought "_he's so mine"_ but then all I could think was _"he's so mine and I'm so his."_

"No, thank you," I said to Santana, walking past her and sitting beside Kurt.

"Okay," said Mr. Schuester. "Since Artie has dropped out of the race, I guess that means it's time to vote. Write the name of the winner on this paper and give it back to me—everyone gets one vote, and yes, you can vote for yourself."

I borrowed a sparkly blue pen from Kurt and wrote, in big block letters, so Mr. Schuester could read it:

**_TEAM UNICORN:_**

**KURT HUMMEL**

**BRITTANY S. PIERCE**

Beside me, Kurt had written our names in a crazy, loopy handwriting. He even drew a little flower and bubble on the paper. I coloured in the flower, so it wasn't green, like the rest of his writing.

Mr. Schuester took all the votes back and read them over. "Well, even though it looks like everyone voted for themselves, even those who didn't compete. It looks like we have a winner." From somewhere in his coat, he pulled out the big gift certificate. "And the winner is..." he said, just like Ryan Seacrest. "... by two votes... Sam and Quinn!"

Santana went, in Kurt's words, ballistic. I called it ghetto mad, but she shouted and Mercedes pulled her back down in her chair. Awkwardly, Sam and Quinn took the big certificate in front of a whole group of people who hated them right then.

***.***

"Hey, Kurt," I said, just like when I first asked him to help Penny and me sing. I think he forgave me for getting him drunk.

He looked over from his locker and picked up his can of "hairspray", whizzing and looking closely at his hair in the mirror on the door of his locker. "Yeah?"

I felt like jumping up and down. "I saw how sad you looked yesterday," I said, "and I thought that since we hadn't won, I'd get you... _this!"_

I showed him a big yellow envelope that I got from Daddy's office. I had covered the front with a _Team Unicorn_ logo, with the unicorn and the words and little sparkles of magic. He smiled a little, carefully opening the top.

Inside was a huge card in yellow and black paper. It had a picture of me dancing and him singing the last big note at the end. His smile got a little bigger as he read the note:

_The owner of this paper has won the October 2010 McKinley High School Glee Club Duet Competition with the following things._

_1. Being awesome and incredible._

_2. Singing like no one else can._

_3. Dancing your cute behind off._

_4. Having the magic power that no one else can even _try_ to have._

_YOU ARE THE REAL WINNER! (NO MATTER WHAT THE CLUB OR MR. SHOE THINKS)_

"There's one more thing," I said as he went to hug me.

He reached into the envelope and pulled out a big white and green certificate. _Free_ _Dinner for 2 at BreadstiX._

"Did you know you could just buy those at Breadstix?" I asked, excitedly. "It cost less than the actual dinner, and that's with a starter—besides salad and breadsticks, I mean, those are free. No, like chips and dip or other stuff. I thought we could go tonight and celebrate our one-week anniversary."

I cheered inside as Kurt smiled Supermanly. "I'd love to," he said, and that was him right then, not sarcastic or trying to prove that he was good to all those stupid-heads who didn't know he was better than all of them. That was the Kurt I liked.

He put his arms around me and I smelled his hairspray right then, sharp and chemically, and I realised that that was what I had always smelled on him before, but so much less. I kind of liked that smell.

"Um, Kurt?"

Kurt stopped hugging me and looked to Rachel Berry, who would never know his magical Supermanness. He put the _Team Unicorn_ envelope in his locker. Good. She didn't deserve it.

"There's something I wanted to talk to you about," she said, pretending to not notice me. She still did, looking at me weirdly, like wondering why I would want to be there.

"Please God, not another pregnancy," he said sarcastically.

"I think you and I might be a little more similar than you think," said Rachel in her speedy dwarf way. I so wanted to bite her. Hard. Like how Charity bit Mr. Theodore's dog next door.

"That's a terrible thing to say," me and Kurt said at the same time.

Rachel still looked at me funny. I didn't go, though. I wanted to go to dinner with Kurt. "I know you're lonely," she said like an actress, all fake emotions. "I can't imagine how hard it must be to have feelings in high school you can't act on for fear of being humiliated, ridiculed or worse." Kurt looked at his shoes, me, the lockers, over Rachel's stubby head—anywhere but at her. "We're gonna win Nationals this year," said Rachel. "And you know why we're going to do that? Because we have you."

"That's true," said me and Kurt together again.

"That's twelve people in there who love you for being exactly who you are," said Rachel, now completely ignoring me. "I know you're lonely but you're not alone. So." Rachel tried to get Kurt's eyes. "I've put together a little duet. I think you'll be very happy with my song selection; it's a bit of everything you and I love."

"The duet competition is over," said Kurt, closing his locker a little bit to hide the _Team Unicorn_ from her.

"I thought this one could be for me and you," said Rachel. There was another meaning in her eyes and voice and words that I didn't like, and I knew that if she ever found out about me and him, she would be after him like a tiny, Jewish rocket.

Kurt smiled a little. "What are the songs?"

"I thought we could do it as a round," said Rachel excitedly. "You would sing Judy Garland's beautiful _Get Happy_, and I would sing Barbra Streisand's equally beautiful _Happy Days Are Here Again_. Same tone, same timings. I know you love a little _Get Happy."_

Kurt laughed. "Yeah. I love that song."

"So, I thought we could do it before Mr. Schuester calls us all back for vocal rehearsal."

Kurt nodded, and Rachel left with a little "Super!" As soon as she was gone, Kurt burst out into giggles. "I thought you were going to kill her!" he said. "I've never seen you that angry."

I looked at him. "Well, she is annoying, mean and thinks she's better when you and me are both better than her. And she was just being totally wrong, right?"

"Right," said Kurt. I started to panic a little. "No, no, no, no—well, yes. I am a little. I mean, I've been lonely for so many years, it's sort of been natural so it's gonna take some time for me to not feel like that."

After a moment, I said, "So, it's like my cousin Jasper. He breathed normally all his life, but then he was in this fire and his breathing was all affected, so it took some getting used to him until he could finally feel like he was breathing normal."

Kurt smiled and put the _Team Unicorn_ yellow envelope in his saddlebag (unicorns have saddlebags, normal Muggles have shoulder bags) before following me to Glee.

"I love all these cards and things," he said, walking so close to me that our arms kept touching. "I still have all of them in a pile in my room. Why do you do all of them?"

I shrugged. "Because they make you happy."

* * *

><p><strong>I think I'm gonna skip "Rocky Horror" because even though it's one of my favourite episodes, there's not really any storylines for Kurt or Brittany. That means "Never Been Kissed" is next. Yep. Karofsky. Blaine. Warblers. Good sweet Lord am I gonna be busy.<strong>

**If there are any things in particular you would like me to add (more cats, etc) or little plot bunnies I could incorporate, feel free to ask via PM or in the reviews.  
><strong>


	5. A Chair is Still a Chair Part I

__**Disclaimer: **Never you mind. It's fanfiction for a reason.

**I feel like I should apologize, but, really, I should have anticipated the overload of homework and studying with AP classes in High School. Congrats, you now know my age and my average hours of sleep.**

**Truthfully, I do apologize, but part of the wait was due to this chapter and the next. They are long, highly-important and I have a mild insecure personality disorder, so I've twiddled with these for literally months, still thinking they're awful.**

**However, I do hope you enjoy this one.**

* * *

><p><em>Get Happy <em>was lovely. Dinner was lovely (even better now that we had gotten that damn meatball). And making out with Britt was lovely. Lying in bed, I truthfully wondered if my life could have gotten better. Thinking about the weekend made me almost dizzy with glee—well, anticipation. Two entire days I could spend with my girlfriend. Just the phrase alone made me feel like going "Neener, neener, I have a girlfriend and you don't!" to... somebody.

***.***

"Uh, Kurt, there's a girl here for you."

It had been months since Dad had actually tried to wake me up on a Saturday. Years, probably. I wasn't awake until I had a shower, and not civil until I had some form of caffeine in me. At whatever time this was, I was a rabid animal, known to kick, punch and even bite the offending, unfortunate waker.

I rolled over to my clock. It was a novelty _Wicked _one my cousin in New York sent me. Galinda's glowing magic wand pointed sometime after nine. I squinted and rubbed the sand out of my eye. Elphaba's hat had the digital time embedded in green luminescent numbers below. 9:07. Good Lord.

I threw my dad an evil look, but he was already gone, ran up the stairs before he could see the beast rise. I turned over and was already drifting off again when I got the greatest shock of my life.

My dad's brother, Michael, came around and took Dad to Vegas for a little bonding time last year, leaving my two young cousins and their cats with me. They woke up at six AM for cartoons and pounced on my bed, cats digging in their claws and the brats jumping up and down, shaking me. For a brief moment, I actually thought Nicole and Emma were back.

Then, she hugged me from behind and I smelled strawberries. The terrible twins weren't back; for one, they weren't tall enough to completely hug me like this, and two, they didn't like to shower, let alone with strawberry-scented products.

"_Bella_ morning, Kurt," said Brittany.

Glad I didn't sleep naked, I patted her hand and told her good morning. "Why the hell are you here at nine?" I asked sleepily. I immediately felt bad when she pulled away. I propped myself up on an elbow and leant down to kiss her. Now I knew why couples liked waking up next to each other: early morning kissing was _awesome_. Even softer and warmer than normal.

She smiled and got out of my bed, pulling me by the sleeves of my silky pyjamas. "Up and at 'em," she said cheerfully.

Murder plots ran through my head as she set me down on my own chair before my mirror and started to style my bedhead hair, giggling the whole time. "I've never seen you this un-clean and un-nice," she said brightly, trying to determine the part of my hair. "Hang on, how do you get it to do that wavy _woo_ thing?"

_Through lots of time, effort and product—they make everything work, boo._

"I like the PJs," she said lower, pulling at the low blue shimmery collar.

I smirked and kissed her again. Then, I remembered Dad. Don't ask me how I made that connection, I just did.

"You think you can wait half an hour for me?" I asked.

She paused, licking and pulling in her lips. "Maybe."

"We get TeleToon Retro," I told her, pointing to the retro space-age TV I found at a garage sale. With some spray paint, it looked like it belonged on the _Enterprise._

Brittany bounced over and sat on the couch. "One Woody Woodpecker show," she said sternly. "That's a half hour."

"All right, sweetheart," I said, yawning. Old romance movies led to me having all sorts of terms of endearment for her.

"I don't like Sweet Tarts," she said.

I could hear the tell-tale _click-click-click_ of TeleToon Retro. "What about cinnamon hearts?" I called through the bathroom door.

"I like those!"

I laughed.

The entire downstairs was mine, on the condition that I couldn't complain about the decoration of the rest of the house. The bathroom was actually larger than the upstairs one and with some additional cabinets and shelving, all my products had space. They weren't all hair, though: moisturizers and cleansers, and the colognes Uncle Mike sent every recognisable holiday on the calendar. Specialised combs had their own racks, like toothbrush holders.

Some flaw of the design had left this alcove that I curtained off, which I used to put my clothes for the next day in. Looking in, I remembered I had promised Dad to help him in the shop. A red checked flannel shirt and Wal-Mart jeans, both lightly oil stained. I bit back a groan.

I managed to get through my morning routine with ten minutes to spare. All that was left was my hair, and that took far longer than ten minutes. I had time to dry it and quiff it—comb it almost straight up, old, 1950's, James Dean style—that was it. I grimaced. The year before I had gone as James Dean for Halloween, which Mercedes and her little sister's friends appreciated very much.

I came out just as the credits began to roll. Brittany's perma-smile sort of froze when she saw me. I felt a blush begin to come on. "Wow," she said. "You look like a boy."

That wasn't what I was expecting. Stupid. Ridiculous. Over the top. Texas farmer boy. Not just "boy."

"Really?" I said, surprised. I leant in front of a mirror to check again. I looked like a farmer boy cast in porcelain.

"That's how other boys dress," she said, standing up. "You look cute."

"Look, Britt, I kind of have to help Dad in the shop," I said apologetically.

"Like work on cars?" she asked, excited.

I nodded, confused. Typically, the fifteenth of the month was a day I dreaded. Was this... cool? Huh. "I used to work almost every day in elementary school, when Dad would teach me to put an engine back together, and my guy friends loved it. Then, the whole gay scandal and when I found Mercedes I kind of stopped working." I realised I was starting to babble and shut myself up.

"Can I watch?" asked Brittany.

I nodded, still a bit confused.

The drive to the shop didn't take long and Brittany wanted to know about my favourite cars, the ones I got the most of, how an engine looked, how to hot-wire one. I really didn't know the last one, but had a good idea.

Dad, with his big trucker hat and jean coveralls, took one look at me and Brittany and said, "You bring a date to the shop?"

"Friend. Not date," I said. I was a better boyfriend than to take Britt to the shop on a _date_. We were friends... who happened to be boyfriend and girlfriend, but this wasn't a date. No.

"Hi, I'm Brittany," she said brightly. In a green skirt and Disney World t-shirt, she looked like she belonged any place else but the mechanic shop.

Wanting to seem like a good Dad, he said, "Call me Burt," before going to the back to get the paperwork for the discharges.

I looked to my red workstation. It was quite tall and had a lot of metal shelves in it, with directions and what was essentially a To Do List on top. The 2003 Chevvy parked in lane two needed a new carburetor, the 1999 Toyota Corolla in lane six had break problems Dad wanted me to try out, and the—

"Oh, wow," I said, smiling. I grabbed the key left on my station.

Brittany read over my shoulder. "What's so special?"

I ducked into the back, calling for her to follow me. I felt like a kid in a candy shop, like Charlie in a chocolate factory, Harry in a medieval castle school. Parked in the very first lane around back was a 1961 navy blue DeSoto, little creepy hood ornament and all.

"Cool," said Brittany when she found me almost hugging the car. "It has wings on the lights."

"It's very, very cool," I said, unlocking the door and sliding in to the vintage car. "Chystler discontinued the DeSotos in '62. This thing is ancient." I turned the key and it roared to life with a vaguely unwell sound. "It's a miracle it still runs!" I shouted.

Brittany sat down in the passenger seat. "It's like a park bench!" she said, delighted, sliding right beside me so we were hip-to-hip, then right to the door and back.

I killed the engine. My job was just to clean out the engine and wash it. Well, I didn't _have_ to wash it, but you could barely see the blue colour. I told Brittany to wash it and she almost jumped on the hose. I found some soap, buckets and sponges, but she was having fun watching the dirt and dust trickle off the windshield.

I ducked when I called her name, because she turned the hose on me.

This could have been fun and involved a massive water fight, but I thought about my dad, working hard and that he was going to come in soon with a client to drive off with their car. Well, no, I didn't think about anything like that but that makes me sound like the responsible son I really was.

I ran around the DeSoto and grabbed a piece of the hose and yanked it. Brittany laughed and got pulled to the ground with it, the hose weaving like a snake. The packed dry dirt ground got a nice bath and became slippery, and much harder to stand up. We wrestled for it, jumping on the hose and trying to aim it at each other. She succeeded in blasting my quiff off, and I drenched her own hair.

At last, my strength and relative size as a boy came into play. I stood, victorious, and filled a bucket with the freezing water. Why was the water so cold? Didn't people _know_ it would be used eventually in a fight that was aimed at sensitive body parts?

Brittany was still laughing, lying on the ground.

Breathing hard, I clutched my stomach and started laughing so hard my stomach hurt when I saw Britt. Soaked, head to foot, her skirt dirty and her shirt see-through and clinging to her. If I ignored her torso, it was hilarious. My eyes were soon drawn to her bra, though, which was now clearly visible through the translucent shirt. I stopped laughing quickly and felt a small shiver that wasn't from the ice water dripping down my spine.

"That's my son," I heard my dad say.

"Uh-huh," said another smiling voice.

I tried to catch my breath. "Hello, Mr. Checksfield," I managed.

"Hi," said Brittany, with a straight face as though she didn't look like a drowned blond rat. "We were just washing the car."

"I bet you were," said Dad dryly. "Well, Mr. Checksfield, here's your key, and feel welcome to visit Hummel Auto Shop any time—I'll personally make sure Kurt doesn't work on your car."

He drove off and Dad gave me a Look that told me I had better haul ass, or I wasn't getting anywhere near the DeSoto. Don't ask about my obsession; vintage cars are gorgeous, like time capsules, and always featured in my old movies. It was like proof the movies were real.

I grabbed some tools and sighed. I had to finish the Chevvy and Corolla first. Brittany liked to watch me work, for some reason, soon abandoning the water and lemony soap. I didn't think I was all that fascinating. She kept pointing at different parts and wanted to know about the tools (like how to spell "torque wrench"), how it worked, why it worked. She found Dad's radio and raided his stock of iced drinks. I guess I'm lucky she brought me Coca Cola instead of Budweiser.

The DeSoto really was a thing of beauty. When a car gets to be forty-eight years old and can still run, it's so far beyond vintage and retro. The DeSoto was the classic car of the fifties and sixties, an icon of cars everywhere. I told Britt that but she was now dancing to Britney Spears's _Circus_.

"Attention span of a gnat," I told my grease rag, shaking my head. I screwed on the oil cap again and admired my wet dancing girlfriend. I felt like such a pervert.

***.***

Kurt was just such a _guy._ I had never really noticed it before, but, I guess, under the whipped spray, the fancy schmancy clothes and the high voice, he was just a guy. It was a bit weird to watch him play with cars' insides, but it was so interesting. It was really hard to understand, but this all seemed very important to Kurt, so I tried at least.

I dangled my legs from the front of another parked car. It was a little tall to sit on, but there were no chairs. My clothes were dirty and sticking and wet, but I didn't really care. I could wash them. It wasn't like blue slushies. This was mud.

At last, breathing hard, he closed the lid on the old blue car and wiped his forehead, his hair all messed up and soaked. I tried not to giggle. He was still so wet. He finished his Coke and threw it in a huge garbage can that was full of paper towels and smelled like metal and oil and other car stuff.

He looked over my shoulder and couldn't see anyone. I thought he didn't, because then he kissed me and put his hands on my hips, moving to stand between my legs. He smelled much different than when he kissed me before: now, he smelt like a boy, oil and dirt and sharp metal. I think he knew that because he was trying to pull away when I grabbed him back and told him not to go without leaving his lips. His hair was tangled when my fingers found it.

Kurt was _definitely _improving his kissing skills. He was pretty okay before, but now he was really good. We stayed on the car for a little while, but then, he pushed me hard off the wet, slippery hood. I landed on the ground, leaning on my left side. I looked at the palm of my hand. Little sharp rocks were stuck in it and tiny lines of red came from the rocks. My knees were a little better, but I felt the fall go all through my body and my whole legs felt like jelly. Not even the good Jell-O. I was going to stand up and ask why he did that, when I heard his really, really scared voice. Even more high than normal, like he had been sucking floaty balloons.

"Dad." A little shake went through his voice when he said that.

I stopped trying to get up and stayed down. I felt Kurt put an arm around my shoulders and whisper his sorrys as he helped me get up.

I looked down at the ground, and felt Kurt's fingers tuck my muddy hair around my ears. I sneaked a look at Burt and saw he was looking mean and tired.

"I tell you time and time again, Kurt, don't sit on the cars. You'll fall off and hurt yourself—or your… friends." He looked at me and smiled a little.

"Sorry, Mr. Kurt's Dad," I said really quiet, holding the bottom of my shirt and twisting it nervously.

Some of the hardness left his face. "It's all right, Brittany, you look like you'll be just fine." He still sounded tired, then he said meanly, "Kurt, take her inside and get her cleaned up."

Kurt led me inside. "I'm so sorry—big step."

I jumped the step and made a sound when my knees bent.

Kurt looked like he was dying inside. "I couldn't let him see me kissing a girl."

"Why not? He's gonna find out some time."

He opened another door and we were in a small bathroom, like a public one. It was clean but boring with a few sinks and green toilet stalls. He pulled hard and some paper towels came from a black box. He put them under a tap and sat down on the cold, hard floor, and told me to sit on the sink.

"Kurt?"

He still looked at my knees, pulling out the sharp rocks and rubbing away the blood gently. "How're your hands?"

I showed him my palm and he kept my hand flat as he continued to clean me up, still not looking at me. This time, touching me, I didn't feel anything. He wasn't very interested.

"Kurt!" I said louder. I was starting to get frustrated.

He looked at me then. "I know Dad's going to find out, I just think he deserves better than to find out by seeing me sticking my tongue down your throat."

I pressed my lips together and tried to hold his hand. "Then we should go out there and tell him. Together."

"I'd rather he find out when we're alone," he said shortly, looking at the floor again. He stood up and turned his back to me. "There you go, Britt."

I jumped off the sink and put my hands on my hips. "Kurt, you can tell me what's wrong, you know."

He threw the paper towel out a lot harder than he needed to, the rocks pinging everywhere. "My Dad thinks I'm gay. You think I'm bi. I don't have a clue what I am. He accepts me. You are my girlfriend. I'm confused as shit. When I told him I was gay, he was fine with it, but he was neutral, not hating or liking it. He knew. Now, this is completely different and if he looks happy, if he likes that I'm with a girl…"

I nodded, not needing Kurt to finish that sentence. I got it.

His hung fell forward. He was still standing in the corner, so I walked up behind him and put my arms around him, standing on tip-toes. I moved my head against his neck and said, "Everything's gonna be okay in the end. Pinkie promise."

***.***

"I like your bowtie."

I smiled and kept walking. "Thank _you,_ Britt." I was in a fabulous mood. My body and mind were beginning to stop the rebellion of the word _girlfriend_ and girl parts and even enjoy them. Brittany had fun, I had hoped, even though I still denied her advances—most of the time. I was cataloguing the precise progression of our relationship in my head. First day, sex and all of the above. Days two to seven: making out and touching, on my part, above the waist. Day eight: making out topless and, in her case, braless with touching above the waist. Day nine: making out top/braless with mutural touching and kissing above the waist.

I think my teenaged libido had finally kicked in. Hormone production accelerating, the wet dream-making, dazing off in class-inducing, constant x ray vision-creating kind of hormones. I think it was called oxytocin.

I reiterate: I was in a fabulous mood.

Brittany closed her locker and caught up, walking elbow-to-elbow next to me. "It's all yellow and bright. Good morning, Tina," she added loudly, half-shouting to Tina across the hall, walking in from the furious gale outside.

Tina scampered in her low heels over to us, cheeks flushed and eyes light. "I imagine we have plenty of sweater trades to look forward to this season?" she asked.

I nodded, pleased someone had noticed by new (by that I mean so old no one had seen it on me in well over a year) robe sweater. "Absolutely."

A strong hand came from nowhere and pushed me hard into Brittany, slamming us both into the nearest locker. I barely escaped my nose from crashing into the ugly green-grey metal, but Brittany had tripped and fallen on her cute behind. My red-faced, mood-crashing humiliation had to wait.

"Are you okay?" I asked breathlessly.

Brittany nodded, that young hurt in her eyes. I pulled her up and she dusted off her uniform. I felt like killing Karofsky, who was now turning the corner and tossing a smirk. Actually curling my hands into fists and taking down the football player who had a year, a hundred pounds and a foot of height on me.

That was when I made my second great discovery of oxytocin, its dark side. It made me suicidal. It must've been some strong male instinct, deep in my subconscious, to protect my significant other.

Tina patted my back, asking quietly if _I_ was okay. I nodded, swallowing the lump of anger and self-pity that had welled inside me. This time, being bullied by Karofsky, it felt different. He bullied and hated me for being gay. Now, I wasn't even sure what I was. I didn't feel like this abuse was earned. Before, it felt unfair but understandable—now I was hated for something I wasn't.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

***.***

We walked much slower to glee club and Kurt was much calmer, but it wasn't a good calm. We were the last ones to arrive. He didn't talk or smile much, even though Tina kept trying to cheer him up, and he was constantly slumped, instead of straight with his head high. I wished I could make him happy, but there were a lot of people in the halls. I hoped he wasn't mad because Carski shoved me too.

Mr. Shoe welcomed Puck back from juvie, and Puck was that bad boy again. Quinn made some mean comment about him from behind us and I jumped at the reminder that I couldn't do more than look at Kurt and hope he understood I was sorry.

Mr. Shoe waved a sheet of paper like a flag and said, "Drumroll, Finn"—Finn drumrolled on his book—"because I have in my hand our competition for Sectionals next month."

We all cheered and Kurt even lifted his head.

"First, the acapella choir from the all-boys private academy in Westerville, the Dalton Academy Warblers." Some cheers for the stupid school. Easy to beat.

"Okay, hold up, just, like, a million awesome gay jokes popped into my head," said Santana meanly.

No one even laughed. Kurt and I glared at her from across the steps.

"And the other team to beat: the Hipsters, a first-year, from the continuing education programme. Now, they are a glee club composed completely of elderly people getting their high school GEDs."

Even more cheers. Old guys and gals. Kurt even smiled a little bit. I nudged him and he nudged me back with a bigger, tired smile. It turned into a Nudge War and Tina looked at us like we were freaks. I was tempted to stick my tongue out at her.

We missed half of what they were talking to, and I came back to Puck saying something about brittle bones and abusing the Hipsters.

"Moving on," said Shoe, standing up, "since it seemed to get you jazzed for Sectionals last year, I want to make this week our second annual boys versus girls tournament."

Even louder cheers and woops this time. Any energy Kurt had got disappeared and he slumped again, his chin touching his chest.

"So, split into two groups, and figure out what songs you're gonna sing." Shoe turned back to the stack of Spanish papers that were always on the desk. Maybe he would finally start to grade them.

I squeezed Kurt's hand in the hustle and bustle, and sat on the other side of the room beside Mercedes. Looking sad, Kurt sat down with the boys.

"Kurt, I'm not going to say it again. Boys' team," said Mr. Shoe sharply.

"I'm already with the boys!" said Kurt loudly and a little meanly.

Mr. Shoe turned around and looked with shock as Kurt was sitting with his legs and arms crossed on the boys' side. "Then, contribute to the team." Shoe went into his office on the side.

Mercedes was throwing out ideas faster than I could keep up. I felt a little weird without someone I really, really liked with me. Santana sat above me and tapped my shoulder. "Girl talk," she said. "Now."

Rachel stood up as soon as we did.

"Ah—sit down, Smurfette," ordered Santana, dragging me to the empty hallway. "Now, Brittany," she said really sweet and sugarly. "Girl to girl, let's get some things straightened out. You're doing good and all, helping Kurt with his problems, but you are Renate Blauel, the girl Elton John married so that he would look normal. If you get it."

I frowned. "What's wrong? You said we weren't together, you didn't want to come out, and now you're being mean because I like Kurt."

"Sweetheart, he doesn't like you back. You're going to get _hurt._"

"He does!" I almost shouted. "I know he does, so don't try and trick me."

Santana groaned with frustration and tightened her hand on my arm. "Why do you have to make things so damn difficult? He's gay, you like anything with a brain. He has the parts you want, you have no parts that he wants."

"He's not gay!" I shouted. "Let go of me."

She did and backed off, looking like someone had hit her with the hose at Kurt's Dad's shop.

"I'm not so stupid that I don't know what I want, and that I know what other people want." I was breathing hard. "I want to be friends, but I'm not going to be your girlfriend, because I'm already his. Do you want to be friends?"

Santana glared at me with her Devil eyes for a long time. "Yes," she whispered.

"I didn't mean to be mean," I said quietly, feeling really guilty. "Sorry." And I ran back to Mercedes and put a thumbs up at Kurt to say everything was a-okay, who had turned really, really white.

***.***

"What _was_ that?"

_My life is over. My life is over. My life is over. My life is over._

"Hmm?"

"What was Brittany shouting outside?" repeated Artie. He had rolled closer to me and we were both a little out of the picture because of the genre Finn, Puck, Sam and Mike had agreed to: hard rock and roll. Artie was Eminem, I was Fiyero. We were out of depth.

"I don't know," I said dully, hoping Artie would leave me to wallow in misery. Two big miseries were two too many. Bullies and Brittany's big mouth.

"It sounded like 'he's not gay'?" guessed Artie.

"What's your point? Do I _look_ straight to you?" I snapped, immediately regretting it, but too deep into my own pity party to aplogise.

"I, uh, I guess not." Artie rolled forward. "Sorry. Didn't mean to touch a nerve."

I skulked behind the boys, looking at the girls longingly as they discussed Lady Gaga and—oh, God, even Beyonce sounded good compared to Alternating Current/Direct Current.

As soon as the bell rang, I ran from the room, disgusted with my self-pity and my attitude, but for the life of me I couldn't change it. I stormed towards the cafeteria, on edge and looking forward to finding somewhere I could be left alone to think about this.

Another shove, narrowly avoiding a broken nose, and a familiar snort of hatred. "What is your problem!" I shouted, furiously glad for someone to take my anger out on.

"You talkin _back_ to me?" asked Karofsky, disbelieving, turning back to me.

I backed up into the locker, intimidated momentarily. "Yeah, I'm talkin back to you." I imitated his uneducated, stupid tone.

"Just because you're all buddy-buddy with a blond cheerleader, you aren't foolin anyone, homo-ell."

I was tempted to congratulate him on the portmanteau of my surname with the word "homo", but I accidentally let out a little snort of laughter, considering how long he must've worked on that word.

"You wanna piece of the Fury?" he nearly yelled.

"The Fury?" I stopped for a moment, confused.

"That's what I named my fist." He brandished it under my nose, like I couldn't understand the concept without smelling it. He was way too close for comfort; I could smell his fifty-five cent deodorant.

"Well, with that level of creativity, you could easily become an assistant manager at a rendering plant," I spat, keeping my voice level and calm even as I felt my ears burn.

It had the desired effect. "I don't know what that is, but if I find out that it was bad, the Fury's going to find you." He was spitting and he shoved me much harder than he ever had before, a lock on the wall behind me smashing into my spine and another into the back of my knee.

My eyes boiled over with hot tears. I took a few deep breaths and heard my voice jump several octaves and tried to force my body to calm down. I felt my hand shake as I pulled up my bag. Most of my anger had turned to fear, what hadn't had become a powerful sense of helplessness.

If they knew about Britt, what should it matter? Boy or girl, whatever. For them to stop because of Brittany wasn't right, but for them to continue wasn't right either.

It was like realising I was the poster child for homophobic bullying all over again.

Before I could travel down the road that would lead to me crying at school—something I hadn't done since middle school—Mr. Schuester found me inches from breaking down in the hallway, slumped against the lockers.

There was nothing he could do.

***.***

"Hey, Brittany."

I looked around, but I couldn't see anyone. I put my last hard pillow in my locker and closed it.

"Uh, Brittany."

This time the voice came from low. I looked down and smiled when I saw Cyborg Artie. "Hi," I said happily. My life was just getting back into order. Like Kurt would say, I was pleased.

Artie looked a little uncomfortable. I jumped out of the way, thinking he needed to get to his locker. He rolled backward, waving a hand, like _Okay, just do whatcha do._ I clipped my lock shut, tightened my ponytail and looked down at him again.

"What's wrong?"

His fingers tapped really fast on his wheels, like he was nervous, and he wouldn't look at me. "Just wanted to say 'hey'."

I shrugged. "Hey!" I waved a little and asked if he was going to the cafeteria. He shook his head. "See you later, then." I was around the corner, when I realised something might've been really wrong.

I ran back, trying to avoid stepping on the cracks, and saw the shiny wheels of his robot chair. "Artie!"

He waited until I was in front of him, then he just looked at me like_ Get outta my way._

"What did you really want to say?" I liked to think I was getting better at this emotion thing, especially since I was practising with Kurt and he was so hard to mind-read.

"Just wondering what you meant when you were shouting at Santana." He tried to roll forward and I jumped to the side, following him. "Don't worry. It's none of my business."

"We had a fight and made up," I said, remembering Kurt's warning to not even think about mentioning _us_ to anyone.

"Yeah, but, you shouted 'He's not gay,' and I was wondering… like I said, none of my business." He rolled faster.

I felt a big cold shock deep inside, like someone rubbed their feet on carpet and zapped me, and actually stopped walking, wondering what on earth I was s'pposed to say.

"I just thought Kurt wasn't _that_ gay," I said quietly, hoping Kurt wouldn't be hurt by me saying this. "You know, he likes girly things and guys and he sings like a girl, but I thought he wasn't all _that_ gay."

It looked like all the tension went out of Artie. "Great. Thanks." And off he rolled.

I wanted to follow him again, but was happy he stopped the conversation first. He ran into Puck. Good. That should make him forget about Kurt and his iffy gayness.

***.***

I looked up at Mr. Schuester from behind my little cup of tepid water.

"Lately, you've been belligerent, angry, pushing people away. Kurt, you don't need me to tell you how your life is or how you should be feeling about it, but if there's anything at all you need to talk about—the bullies, anything at all—my office is always open. And you might feel more comfortable talking to me than Miss Pilsbery."

His softly caring tone, quiet, intimate voice, the genuine feeling behind his words and his bad attempt at humour—it made me want to cry and spill my guts. Tell him about drinking with Brittany, sleeping with her, dating her, my newfound hatred for Karofsky, and everything in between.

I hadn't realised until that moment how desperately I wanted to tell someone. Anyone.

"Have—" I stopped myself mid-sentence and hated myself for pushing at all back down again. "Have you ever felt useless, so unchallenged in life? Boys versus girls? Again?"

Mr. Schuester sat back, a slightly exasperated look crossing his face. This was the Kurt he expected: annoyed, slightly stuck-up and eternally miserable inside. And I hated myself for playing up to it, but many years hiding what I felt prepared me, rather ironically, for hiding a girlfriend.

"Kurt," he said suddenly, standing up and closing the shades, casting long, striped shadows across the room and hiding us from view. He pulled up an additional chair from the corner of his room and dragged it close.

I knew what he was going to say before he did, but the shame boiled over the instant it passed his lips.

"You're crying."

A small, watery gasp left my mouth and more than the traitorous, lone tear left me. Mr. Schuester passed me a tissue box and I grabbed a few, dapping my eyes and forcing my breathing to relax.

_"__Gracias, __el Profesor Schuester."_

He put an arm around my shoulder but didn't prompt me in any other way.

"I thought I was okay keeping her a secret." I knew every word I said was a betrayal of my father's trust, but—agh, there were too many excuses. I just couldn't hold it in anymore and Schuester was just _there_. I felt numb with terror and shame but maybe it wasn't numb anymore; maybe it was apathy. I didn't care.

I felt Schue taking in a deep breath.

The words just fell from my lips.

"But I'm just not. I hid my sexuality for years, but my reasoning was that I would be hurt if I ever told anyone. I'd have no friends. But this is so much worse," I whispered. "It's _normal_, but no one'll understand how much it hurts, because it's so abnormal for me. When I'm with her, I feel so happy—I've never felt like this. But when I'm away that little voice telling me that I'm wrong for feeling this starts up again." I looked at Schuester very carefully and damned myself.

"I have a girlfriend."

His eyes widened. His chest stopped moving. A little colour drained from his face. And then he let out a little chuckle. "Well, that's a shocker."

I didn't laugh.

He got serious again. "I'm sorry, that was inappropriate. Would—would it be correct for me to say that your emotional state would be similar to that of a straight boy realising he was—realising he was… bisexual?"

I found I didn't even cringe at the word.

"Thank you," I whispered, wiping my eyes again. "For not saying 'gay'."

"Well, having a girlfriend doesn't make you straight." He stopped suddenly. "I was going to say that what you're attracted to more determines your sexuality than your choice of… companion."

I laughed a little. "Thank you." I ducked out from under his arm and threw out the damp Kleenex in the trash can in the corner.

I felt stunned, a little drunk, absent from reality, but knew that whatever had happened, it had taken such a huge weight from my shoulders. I had received validation—the _correct_ kind of validation—from someone I respected and looked up to.

I picked up my bag and let out a little sigh. I caught my reflection in the glass cabinet behind Mr. Schuester, who had returned to his desk. I had the biggest, dopiest grin on my face. I hardly looked like a boy who had just cried.

"Thank you," I said again.

"Thank you for telling me. I'm honoured you felt you could confide that in me." He clicked his pen absently. On. Off. On. Off. "On your other issue, the boys-girls tournament, I think I've got an idea to change that."

***.***

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt," I said when I saw him in the cafeteria.

"What, what, what?" He was sitting alone at a table with a happy little Superman smile.

And I told him all about Artie and his none-of-my-business and asking questions, hoping and hoping that he wouldn't be mad. He bit into his apple with a loud _crunch_ and chewed slowly before shrugging.

"Okay. I've got bigger news. I told Mr. Schuester, boo."

I slid around the mint table circle-like bench so I was right beside him, and hugged him hard. "I'm so happy for you!" I said in his ear. He put an arm around my waist and half-hugged me, the apple in his other hand. I enjoyed the hug for another half second before sliding back away.

He tried to stop smiling, but I tickled him a little and he smiled Superman.

Normally, when we were in public or around people, he was always an arm away and never said anything that could give him away. But through the whole lunch hour, he didn't let go of my hand. Our hands were under the table, but it was definitely better than nothing.

***.***

I strutted into glee and took a seat beside Mercedes, while still being on the boys' half. She gently put a hand on my arm.

"You okay, Tink? Saw Schue take you to his office yesterday at lunch and I lost ya after that."

I smiled lightly. I was utterly emotionally drained from my ordeal with Mr. Schue. "Fairy dust to spare." I blew a little pretend dust into her face from my palm, making her giggle.

Brittany was sitting in front of us and looked back at me with something I could only call jealousy and smiled and winked at her.

"Look I'm not throwing the baby out with the bathwater, here—" started Schuester.

"I've totally done that," said Brittany absently.

Mr. Schue did a double-take, then decided to ignore Britt. "We're just making an adjustment. Boys, you are now singing songs traditionally sung by girl groups—"

The boys all slumped, but I felt a new energy surge. There was something for me to do, to work on. Female music.

"—and girls, try some classic rock—The Who, The Stones—the more opposite your choice, the more points you score." He returned to his papers to leave us all to brainstorm.

I leaned forward and said to the boys, "Don't worry, gentlemen, I have this under control."

Puck's face had a murderous expression and the other guys were hardly faring better. Remembering Brittany's encounter with Artie, I decided he was thankfully relieved. Fantastic.

There was no lunch for me. I lost Brittany somewhere in the hustle and bustle of high school scene; hopefully she was making up with Santana in a way that didn't include outing me. While I was partial to Santana, her friendship with Britt was undeniable.

I commandeered a spare art room and was already styling outfits and working out a colour palate that, while not being able to flatter _everyone_, highlighted their best features and didn't clash overall. Not to mention the actual wardrobe, these were high school boys, and not nearly as open-minded as I.

It was a messy lunch hour, including many pages of ripped and torn up notebook paper and nearly stapling my thumb while I compiled a few splash boards. I whistled as I worked, completely engrossed with my work and, for once in quite some time—God, was it really less than two weeks?—I felt at peace.

***.***

I assembled the gentlemen into Mr. Schuester's Spanish class after school for a team meeting. I put up my boards and stole a pointer from Mr. Schue; I dodged a question about my day with a quick "fine" and returned to the boys.

"Welcome. I decided today would be as good a start as any to begin our planning for our mash-up. Unfortunately for you, this is my speciality and, therefore, you will be relying on my direction.

"Now, obviously for this medley to work, I will have to sing lead. And when you are singing Diana Ross, Bob Mackie-esque maribou _feather boas are a must." I snapped the first board sharply for effect._

_Artie turned to Mike. "Isn't this lesson about opposites? I mean, you in a sequin gown and feather boa is exactly what you'd expect."_

_I tried not to take that personally. I threw my hands in the air. "Okay—who said anything about a sequin gown?" _

_Puck had finally had enough. He had been absently tossing a football to himself, but now he got off Schue's desk. "Dude, why don't you make yourself useful and go put some rat poison in those old folks' Jell-O or visit the Garglers?" he deadpanned, sitting in the back and kicking his feet up._

_"The Warblers," I said, crossing my arms. I felt my new spark of energy dying._

_"Whatever. See what they're up to, and you can wear all the feathers you want. You'll blend right in." Puck rose his eyes as a challenge and threw the ball to Finn._

_I gaped, open-mouthed at him. My slowly mounting frustration snapped. "Fine," I said, grabbing my boards and storming out with my ears burning._

***.***

"—and then he told me to spy on the Warblers. If they want nothing to do with me, then I'll just go."

I shrugged, biting my lip. "Puck's not very nice. He shouldn't have said that." I sat cross-legged on Kurt's pretty, fairy tale white bed.

His hands flew so fast around a little piece of cherry red cloth, then, suddenly, it was a straight, little tie down his white-white shirt. "What else is with the uniform, Britt?"

I looked at his laptop, squinting at the Dalton uniform. "A blueish, blackish blazer-jacket with red stuff at the hands and neck."

Kurt disappeared into his closet. I ran my hands over his shimmery, patterned white bedsheets and remembered the night before last. I was getting happier and happier Kurt was taking direction.

"Kurt!" someone shouted. I thought it was Mr. Burt.

Kurt ducked under his clothes and shouted loudly, "No shop boots on the floor!"

Kurt's dad came down the stairs, staying on the little bottom stage with dirty, big boots. Kurt ran into what he called his "sitting room." Mr. Burt saw me and frowned, saying hi. I waved back, staying on Kurt's bed.

Kurt and his dad talked a little bit about something in the mail. It wasn't very interesting. I got off his bed and poked my head into his huge closet. So many clothes with so many colours. They all smelled a little like Kurt, clean and soapy and a little bit sweet and spicy.

Kurt came back, carrying a _huge_ brown mailing box. "Whatcha doing?" he asked, smiling. He dropped the box on his bed.

I grabbed the first thing I saw. "Wear this." It was a black, leather jacket with shiny yellow buttons.

He dusted the shoulders off, even though there was nothing wrong with the straight jacket. "Okay," he said, slipping it on and buttoning it up. He looked in his long mirror and turned around. "It'll have to do."

"Do what?" I sat beside the package.

He smiled. "Convince the Warblers I'm a student at Dalton." He flattened the little flippy things around his neck and turned again. "Sorry I couldn't spend today with you, Britt."

Today was a no-school day where teachers had meetings and we all stayed home to watch cartoons. Today, I had guessed, was also going to be a day to spend at Kurt's or Santana's house. I had even put on a nice skirt and shirt. But, too bad. He'd be back in two, maybe three Bugs Bunny shows and he told me to stay and wait.

"That's okay," I said, playing with the tape on the box. "What's this?"

"Just clothes I ordered online." He turned a little red before kissing me on the cheek. "See you later."

I sat down in front of his spacey T.V. and turned on _Looney Toons._ He'd be back soon with lots of good juicy info on our competition and then we could have some fun.

***.***

Making it in the front door was a miracle in and of itself, I thought as I pulled down a pair of sunglasses I had found in my Escalade. I had thought an approximation of the uniform would be good enough at four o'clock on a Friday; boys would be running around with jeans and the ilk, while a few kept pieces of their uniform but no—the school was a mass of dark blue and red stripes.

The inside of the preparatory resembled a Victorian house with elaborate floral wallpaper with dark colours, polished bronze railings, fluttering gauzy curtains and hardwood floors so clear my reflection was almost visible. All in all, the school was gorgeous.

I decided to follow the herd down a corridor and another flight of stairs, until I caught someone who didn't look all that hostile or in such a hurry.

"Excuse me," I called.

He turned and I lost my breath for a moment. The decorating wasn't the only gorgeous thing in this school. Aside from the abuse of hair gel, he was very good looking.

"Hi, can I ask you a question? I'm new here," I said in a single, thin breath. For a moment, I wondered if he would make fun of my voice and snot off like the prissy, self-righteous, testosterone-driven, rich-faced—

"My name's Blaine," he said with a smile, extending his hand.

I took it in a small daze. "Kurt."

"So what exactly is going on?" I indicated the traffic of people constantly moving around us.

"The Warblers, man," said Blaine enthusiastically. "Every now and then they throw an impromptu concert in the senior commons. Tends to shut the school down for a while." He winked.

It took a moment for me to process what he was saying. Then, I saw the rush of people all squeezing through a set of double doors. "So, wait, the glee club is kind of cool here?"

Blaine still looked half-enthusiastic, half-proud. "The Warblers are like rock stars."

I raised an eyebrow sceptically.

"C'mon, I know a shortcut." He took my hand and I lost track of my breathing.

All I knew was that he was leading me through relatively empty hallways, until we arrived another set of double oak doors into another fancy, old-fashioned room filled with about a hundred boys in their immaculate uniforms. Some lounged around, talking, others moved tables and furniture to make a general stage area in the center aisle.

I took in a slightly shuddering breath when he let go of my hand, and gave voice to my earlier realisation. "Ohhh, I stick out like a sore thumb."

Blaine smirked. "Well, next time, don't forget your jacket, new kid." He pulled and adjusted my already perfect lapels and my breathing stopped again. "You'll fit right in," he assured, winking again.

Some of the boys in the now-cleared aisle started an acapella beat that sounded somewhat familiar.

Blaine dropped his bag unceremoniously and said piously, "If you'll excuse me…"

The acapella Warblers assembled in the center, a perfect group of two even rows with—ohmigod—Blaine standing all by himself.

_"Before you met me, I was alright but things were kinda heavy, you brought me to life, now every February you'll be my Valentine—Valentine."_

And he was good. _Really_ good. Shit—they were good, _they._ The Warblers were a formidable adversary.

My brain began to leak out my ears with their smooth style and Blaine's even smoother delivery as a frontman. And, I swore to whatever deity there was, that Blaine was singing to me.

My eyes began to slide from the fabulous performers to the students and the crowd peering over my shoulder: they were happy, proud even, of their team, just like any sports team. They enjoyed the music, dancing and singing along, whooping and cheering when Blaine hit the highs.

They were _rock stars._

And when they were finished, everyone cheered louder and applauded. Nevermind that they were my competition, I joined in the applause.

The crowds gradually dissipated and I fully intended to slink away with them into the night (well, mid-afternoon sun), but Blaine caught my shoulder.

"Like it?"

I nodded, just thinking that he was touching me again. "Yeah. Good."

"My friends and I were just going to get a coffee, wanna come?"

I realised his hand was still on my shoulder, his grip a little tighter. I nodded again, thinking that maybe I just didn't have a choice in the matter.

I let Blaine lead me through the school to their cafeteria. A black boy called David and an Asian named Wes were already sitting at a table, generic paper coffee cups in their hands. Blaine steered me to a seat and ordered me a latte.

I was surrounded. I swallowed nervously as I held the steaming coffee. "It's very civilized of you to invite me for coffee before beating me up for spying," I said hoarsely.

"We are not going to beat you up," said Wes precisely.

David was laughing. "We thought you were such a terrible spy it was sort of… endearing."

Blaine drank from his own coffee. "Which makes me think spying wasn't the only reason you came." He sat back with that confident, self-assured smile.

I looked down at my coffee again and half-laughed at myself, at what I had witnessed in the senior commons, at these choirboys for their immaculately groomed appearances and their dedication to perfection. It could all be attributed to money and what comes with it, but—well.

"If I can ask a question, are you guys all gay?" I whispered.

They all laughed momentarily and the other two looked knowingly at each other, smiling in their slightly condescending way at me.

"Uh, _no_," said Blaine, like it was obvious. I felt myself colour. "I mean, I am, but these two both have girlfriends." Still in that must-be-obvious voice.

I felt my colour deepen. Why, oh why did Blaine have to be gay? I covered my inner drama with the free latte.

"This is not a gay school, we just have a zero-tolerance harassment policy," said David, shrugging.

Wes remained serious. "Everyone gets treated the same, no matter who they are. It's pretty simple."

These was a short, silent break while I tried to process this. Public school was different, as I had always known, from private school, but this…? Zero-tolerance that was _enforced?_ A whole school that felt glee was cool and gay was okay? If it wasn't for the outrageous coffee prices scribbled in chalk on a board above the canteen, I would call this Heaven. I felt a little like crying. Despite Mercedes and the girls and now Brittany, there was a difference between feeling like I belonged among them and feeling like I belonged period.

Blaine sensed this and asked his friends to leave us alone. They took their coffees and left us, offering words of advice that I couldn't hear. How…

"I'd take it you're having trouble at school," said Blaine. It wasn't a question. He knew that at the very least, I liked boys.

The next words I felt obligated to say. They just fell from my mouth.

"I have a girlfriend."

If Blaine had been drinking, he would've spat out his coffee. Eyes popped slightly, posture straightened, eyebrow raised. "That's cool, too. So, they just _think_ you're gay?"

The instinct to cry returned. "Well." I shrugged and smiled with what I hoped was my usual sass. But my voice cracked a little. "I am gay. I just… have a girlfriend. I've—uh—I've got issues." I tried again for my sass but Blaine wasn't buying it.

He nodded understandingly. "I can't understand what you must feel like, with the girlfriend part, but I do know about being gay in a public school of Ohio."

Suddenly, here he was. The gay I had always looked for. Handsome, smooth, charismatic, empathetic.

"I am the only person out of the closet at my school," I whispered, my voice still cracking. A few small tears escaped and the familiar lump in my throat came back.

I nodded. He nodded. We just knew what it was like.

"I've tried to stay strong about it but there's this—this Neanderthal at school who's made it his mission to make mine a living hell and nobody seems to notice."

"You've always thought you were gay and, now, I take it you haven't come out with the girl, she's hiding in your closet?" asked Blaine, sipping his coffee with a look of genuine sympathy on his face.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. I took a long drink and a shuddering breath to calm myself. "I don't know what it is, but I feel so much more alive with her. I feel like I'm better with her, like the world just disappears, and even that doesn't happen with my female acquaintances. And I've enjoyed the—I suppose I could call it the bedroom. Kissing her and knowing that truly someone is behind those lips that really, really does care about me."

I couldn't tell if this disturbed Blaine or not, and for a moment I thought I had made a terrible mistake, that McKinley would find out and my life would end.

Blaine let out a long slow breath and carefully considered his next words. "Well, something you've got to have heard activists and people talk about is that being gay isn't a choice, it's something that you feel inside you, something right. I don't know what word you want to be applied to you, but whoever you are and whoever you're attracted to—if it feels right, no one should put you down for that, especially not you."

I laughed aloud a little bit as I realised the connection.

This time, Blaine looked disturbed and a little bit hurt. He had after all, most likely spilled his life's accumulation of psychology.

"I just remembered something she said. '_Don't label yourself. That's way worse than other people doing it to you. Just, do what you like.'"_

Blaine laughed too. "She's smart," he said with a smile.

"Very," I added, playing with the lip of my cup. It was another fear I had secretly harboured: how gays would view me. And now I knew, or at least one's opinion: not hypocritically. Each milestone I crossed seemed to make me cry and make me feel high at the same time.

Blaine spun his coffee, eyeing the table. "In terms of the Neanderthal, you can… refuse to be the victim. Prejudice is just ignorance and you have the opportunity to teach him now, like you've enlightened me on internal conflicts about someone's sexuality that I didn't even know were possible." Blaine looked much more serious now and the laughter left his pretty brown eyes.

I smiled in woe at how that situation would play out. "Just tell him?"

"Yeah," said Blaine, smiling a little, hitting the table with his fist lightly. "Tell him off, call him out on his behaviour and then just… tell him that everyone's different. I can completely understand if you are uncomfortable about that, with the girlfriend and all, but then enlighten about how it feels to be gay. He sure as hell doesn't know that."

He bit his lip. "Kurt, I was taunted at my old school and no one would really do anything about it because they just… didn't care. I ran, Kurt, and I came here. I didn't stand up. I let bullies chase me away, and it's something that I really, really regret."

"Thanks." I bobbed my head, feeling the urge to cry again. "Thanks for… everything. Really. It's been a pleasure." I stood up and grabbed my bag and held it close for protection. I extended my hand and Blaine shook it, still sitting down.

I walked as fast as I could from the school, feeling my heart relax with every step I put between myself and Mr. Perfect. Now, I could go home to Miss Perfect.

***.***

"Hello," I called downstairs as I took my shoes off at the door.

I heard a grunt come from somewhere upstairs; Dad was home from shop. Oh. I could tell from the car's dashboard that I was… well, Britt would know.

"Kurt!" I heard the squeal and the tell-tale gunshots of Elmer Fudd.

All of a sudden, a mass of blond hair hit me and I was almost knocked back into the door with her excitement. She pulled away only to kiss me on the mouth. Arms clinging around my neck, breasts pressing into my chest, and an exuberant welcome-back kiss—I wondered why I had ever thought about Blaine like, well, like I had. I had a perfectly wonderful girl, literally, at home.

She also undid my tie. She had become a master of untying ties.

"That was four episodes, Kurt," she said semi-sternly, pulling me by my empty hand back to my downstairs. She knotted the tie around my doorknob in a way that made me cringe.

"I'm sorry. I saw a performance and they took me for coffee—

"Hold on, wait a minute." Brittany pushed me into my own couch and thrust a flowery pink notebook and a feather-and-jewel-encrusted pen into my hands. She pulled her feet under her behind and crowded in. "Write down everything you remember," she said seriously.

Trying not to laugh at her school equipment, I wrote little tics about their performance, their subtle weak points and their ultimate strength, which was their uniqueness as an acapella choir. I left out Blaine's advice on the page but told her I met a gay who I told about us, but I'm not quite sure she heard because all she said was, "Sounds good."

When I had covered a page and a half of notes (which was very difficult since Brittany kept kissing my neck and I was becoming paranoid that I would imagine Brittany as Blaine), Brittany seemed satisfied and put her other arm around me, planting another kiss on my mouth, the scent of strawberries assaulting me again.

I heard a few clicks; she reached behind me and turned off the lights, leaving only the dimmest setting on. Very nice.

She pushed me down, again, onto my own couch and backed off, kissing me the way she had the year before: letting me rest my feet on the opposite armrest (something that would normally make me wince), and kneeling under me. This time, though, there was no baseball cap to bang against her forehead, her hand was allowed to slide along my slacks, and my hands instead of folded on my chest were feeling her breasts and even one hand at her rear. However, identical to last time was the tickling aspect of her hair, like whenever she was on top.

For the longest time, I just enjoyed my girlfriend kissing me, content in knowing that while I was nervous and occasionally in near-hysteria about others' perceptions of me, I was happy with who I was.

Then, of course—I really should have seen this one coming. I cook dinner. It was six o'clock. Dinner is served at six-thirty every night, no exceptions. I hadn't started dinner. Dad is a hungry man who runs on a tight schedule.

"Are you going to—oh. Uh. Am I interrupting something, Kurt? Kurt?"

***.***

I didn't really think anything was happening. Honest. I just knew Kurt was kissing me and touching me and I thought he was going to go even further, like maybe in my panties. That got me much more excited than normally and I kissed him harder, so happy to have him back.

I didn't really like him going to that gay boarding school, because there had to be cute gay guys who would want to take away Kurt—what gay boy wouldn't?

But he was back and he was mine and he still smelled like Kurt. Clean and sweet and a little spicy. He still tasted like Kurt, too, and he always touched me really softly, like he was going to break me, at least for the first little bit, then he got excited and his nails started to dig in a little and I could really _feel_ him. But his nails weren't all sharp and jagged like guys' normally were; neat and circular and it just felt good.

I was more concerned with getting him to that happy place than with anything else. For all I really cared, the whole world could just go and blow itself up as long as it didn't touch this basement. If it dead, we'd be dead and then I couldn't kiss him.

***.***

"Britts, Britt, please," I whispered, begged, really, against her lips. As if I could fix this all if I could just talk to Dad, who I knew was still standing there like someone had planted him there.

"Huh?" Brittany pulled back and looked at me with such puppy dog eyes that it broke my heart. "What'd I do wrong?"

I looked pointed at my dad who was standing…

"Dad," I said in mild disbelief. "You are wearing your shop boots _in my room_."

He didn't even care.

Probably because I had a beautiful blond girl lying across me.

Prompting her with my hand, we sat up, my arm still around her waist. I smiled a little, trying to think of something to say before Brittany got a word in.

Dad still hadn't changed from the shop: blue work shirt, cap, dirty jeans and those monstrosities called boots that used to vaguely resemble a colour called yellow but were now black, some beige colour trying to push through. And they were on _my_ carpet.

Girl vs. Carpet. Carpet won.

"Dad," I said again, this time with a little panic. I pointed to the floor.

"Son," he said sternly, in his who's-the-parent voice. He pointed to Brittany, who was smiling, innocent as a dove, her head on my shoulder. Soon, I was going to be able to get drunk on the mere smell of strawberries.

Thankfully, he stepped up onto the platform we had installed for him. Two evil splotches of black on the eggshell carpet looked at me like devil eyes.

"I'm confused," said Dad. He flipped on my sharp light, blinding all three of us momentarily. He sounded truly confused. "This is the second time I'm finding you in, well, kissing a girl. And there was this—"

He held up the doorknob sign I custom made on my computer._ (Please do not enter under any circumstances; I'm making out with a girl)_ And the scarlet tie I had worn that day.

I frowned. "What the—?"

Brittany put a hand on my chest. "You put a tie on the door when you don't want someone to come in when you're busy. That's what Santana told me. I just… found the sign."

"Yeah," said Dad, obviously eyeing the hand on my chest.

I felt the warmth of her skin, then realised she had silently undone three of the buttons on my eight-button shirt while we had been kissing. I buttoned them one-handed in a hurry.

I looked at Dad, then at Brittany, then back at Dad. Deep breath. "Dad, I really need you to respect my privacy," I said in the slightly butch voice I had adopted last year (also known as my deep singing voice). "Britts and I were just having sexual relations."

"That's what you said the last time." Dad pointed the door card at me. "Can we talk in private?"

"Sure." I swallowed. I squeezed Brittany's hand and was going to stand up when she kissed me on the cheek. "Back soon, Britt."

My cheeks burning, I climbed the stairs and stood outside my door, prepared for the onslaught that I knew I fully and rightfully deserved by deceiving my own father.

I knew what I sight I must've been: hair everywhere, flushed and embarrassed, hand caught in the cookie jar.

"Are you having another identify crisis?" he asked me in a whisper.

"No, well, kinda. Yes. Yes, I am having another identity crisis."

"Is it to do with me?" He looked almost as heartbroken as Brittany.

"No, never. Completely my own…issues."

"Okay, you've gotta help me along here. Is it school? Are the bullies gettin to you so badly you're turning to a girl?"

"No and no."

"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel." That voice was a voice no child messed with, especially when a child is middle-named with that voice.

"I—I—" I swallowed hard past the lump to push out the next words. If I could come out gay, I was sure as hell going to come out with a girl. "Brittany Suzanne Pierce is my girlfriend."

I expected fireworks, a clap on the back, a "Good for you, son", an explosion worthy of Chernobyl, but certainly not this.

Dad, who was half-bent over to accommodate my lack of height for this man-to-man discussion, stopped waving the door knocker at me and utterly froze. "Wha…?" He didn't even finish the word.

I waited a solid five minutes before saying, "Shall I make dinner? Maybe Indian—"

And I never got further.

"You have a girlfriend."

"Yes."

"And you never said anything."

"No."

"So are you… not gay after all?"

I analysed his tone of voice in that single sentence for many months afterward, trying to figure out what that pause meant, but as far as I could identify, it was neutral and he refrained from using the word straight.

Looking into my dad's face—Dad who had dealt so well with my gayness, Dad who had loved me no matter what, Dad who told me was going to do the best he could for me, Dad who was supportive, Dad who had told me he was cool either way, and Dad who I knew would one day walk me down the aisle with my future husband—I couldn't deny it anymore. "Gay" was only liking members of the same sex and as I very obviously knew, Brittany was not a boy. No matter how much of a safety blanket the word was, I just couldn't hold onto a dream of sand anymore.

"You're right. But I'm not straight because, in general, I still like boys." I found myself whispering, almost whimpering.

Then, Dad slipped back into that quiet voice he used before. "Are you at all having problems with this new… development in your relationship… status?"

"I should make dinner."

"Kurt."

I swallowed hard again to relieve another lump that I knew would go to crying. I had cried to come out gay into the shoulder of this very manly man I had for a father; but this was not something I could cry about. I wouldn't let myself. I had with Mr. Schuester. I had with Blaine. Not with Dad, too.

"Yes," I choked out.

Dad pulled me into a tight bear hug and my vow to refuse the waterworks went out the window as for the second time in as many years I cried into my father's work shirt because of my sexuality.

***.***

I played with the little waves on my skirt. I thought it looked like the ocean; that's why I wore little dolphin hairclips with it.

It was no good trying to distract myself from the fact that I was left alone in Kurt's sitting room, while he talked with Mr. Burt about me. I knew Kurt was having trouble and Mr. Burt had to know at some time, but what if he didn't like it?

I bit my lip, tasting Lip Smackers. I knew what I had to do.

I ran upstairs and opened the door. Mr. Burt was sitting on the couch with a newspaper and Kurt was nowhere.

I sat down beside Mr. Burt. "I'm really, really sorry, Kurt's Dad. I didn't mean to give Kurt all these problems, really. I just—I just wanted him to be happy, still do. Please don't be mad with him, and don't blame me. It's not my fault and it's not Kurt's fault."

He stared at me like I was a fish. He put down his newspaper. "I guess that's it."

"You aren't blaming Kurt for liking me—are you?"

He looked at me. "No. I don't think anyone could. I think you really do want the best for him, and as long as you're happy with each other I don't think I can really do anything about this."

I hugged Mr. Burt tight. "Thank you, Mr. Burt, thank you so much."

"What are you doing?"

Kurt was standing behind the couch, a comb in his hand that he was pulling through his hair.

"Just wanted to make sure Mr. Burt didn't blame us." I smiled at him.

"It's just Burt," said Mr. Burt, picking his paper back up again. "I'd like you to stay for dinner. If you're going to be such a part of Kurt's life—"

He turned around and looked at his son. "When you were at Breadstix last week that was with her?"

"First date," I said, looking at him happily.

"What about that party—forget it. I don't wanna know." Burt waved his paper and kept reading.

"Actually—"

"Brittany, you might want to phone your mom, say where you are," suggested Kurt, his voice really high. He was making cutting motions across his throat with the comb and shaking his head.

"Well, Kurt, I know I told you this last year but this time I'm being serious. You've gotta respect this fine young woman and you need to remember protection for when the time comes."

"Which kind of protection?" I asked, confused.

Kurt came over and led me to the kitchen, which was all stainless steel and blue and white tiles.

"For sex," Kurt whispered in my ear.

I frowned. "Those little boy-part raincoats? But we didn't use them last time."

Kurt groaned. "Please don't tell my dad we had sex. Just—never tell him that." Kurt snorted and smiled as he opened a little white cupboard. "And never call condoms boy-part raincoats ever again."

"I used to call them boy-part umbrellas but Santana told me that wasn't really right. And it isn't: umbrellas only cover the front when raincoats cover all around."

"What's this about umbrellas and raincoats?" asked Burt as he came in. He opened the fridge and there was some crinkling, like papers.

"Ah! No snacking before dinner," snapped Kurt, coming from the cupboard in a flash, taking the little pack from Burt.

I giggled. "Hey, Mr. Burt, do you want to hear my theory on condoms?"

"Sure."

"NO!"

***.***


	6. A Chair is Still a Chair Part II

**Disclaimer: **Never you mind. It's fanfiction for a reason.

**There's still a third part coming to the episode _Never Been Kissed_ that's the boys' performance and not much else.**

* * *

><p>The gentlemen and I had a long meeting before school, meaning to plan for our mash-up competition, since the girls were to perform earlier that day but, apparently, I was out of the loop in a very important matter.<p>

"Excuse me. Could you say that again?" I asked.

Sam shifted awkwardly in his chair.

"These idiots pictured Beiste while making out so they wouldn't blow it, and now Schue's mad at us," said Puck with disgust.

I started. Wow. I was tempted to try that with Britt next time (not that I had a problem… or much of one), but Schue's point was obviously that this was very disrespectful.

"Whatcha thinkin' bout, Kurt?" said Puck, straddling a chair in front of me. "Find out about the Warblers?"

I shook myself from my fantasy and pulled out Brittany's hot pink notebook. "Yeah, I wrote it all in here."

Raising an eyebrow, Puck took the notebook and started reading the page.

"So, are we going to use this competition to apologise for using Beiste?" said Finn. Sam slunk lower in his seat.

I stood up, taking my written plans for the mash-up and I began to hand them out. "Then we can still use my original idea, which was The Supremes's _Stop! In the Name of Love_ and _Free Your Mind_ by En Vogue."

Sam looked at me with a look of horror. "You mean… duh—duh-duh-duh duh-duh?" He sang the opening lines of _Stop!_ and I grinned.

***.***

The Stones ended up being more than pebbles. Mercedes told me that. They also rolled, and rocked. I didn't really know who Bon Jovi was, but the performance was too sexy and fun to really care all much.

The guys were all smiling and whooping, all happy and cheery. Mr. Schue looked really surprised with the flashing lights and leather Santana had let us borrow. Maybe I was just seeing things, but I thought Kurt was watching _me_ instead of the rest of the girls.

I didn't have a solo, which I had argued with Rachel about—even Mercedes had her Stones solo. While she was singing, Kurt pulled out his phone and clicked around on it. Happily, he put it away to see the awesome move Rachel, Mercedes and I pulled: not poking Rachel's eye out with a microphone.

All the girls went to their boys, giggling and breathing hard. Tina sat on Mike's lap, pulling her hat off and squishing it on his head. I kinda wanted to stand beside Kurt like Quinn was doing to Sam, or wave and strike poses like Santana and Puck, but Mercedes beat me to it, wiggling fingers with Kurt.

I slumped a little where I was standing, listening to Rachel go on about the mash-up and how all of it was her idea. Kurt smiled past Mercedes at me, though, so I kept high hopes that he would sing… whatever that song was to come out with.

***.***

I hoped that whatever supportive relationship I was developing with Blaine, it wasn't destructive. Too be fair, that single texted word uplifted me in a way few things had in a long time.

_Courage._

To know that he had cared enough about my situation to remind me, that he was regretful enough of his own past mistakes to remind me to do different. That little reminder was—

Hit. Shove. Crash. Locks smashed into spine and knee. On my ass in my favourite pants. Evil glare.

For just one second I imagined taking my iPhone back off the floor, finding Brittany and going home with her to watch _West Side Story_ while complaining about Karofsky the whole way home. And the next day would just be a repeat of today.

_Courage._

I ignored my bag, my iPhone sitting in the hall, and just ran after the imbecile. "Hey! Hey, you!"

Blood pounding in my ears, fingers caught in my sweater, hair dangling before my eyes annoyingly, I shoved the door to the football locker room so hard that the towel racks rattled.

"I am talking to you!" I shouted.

Karofsky calmly pulled his bland sneakers from a locker. We were alone. "The girls' locker room is next door," he said like he couldn't care less.

The sheer _nerve_ of that idiot, that he thought he could slam me around and then think I wasn't a person—

"What is your problem?" I demanded, my voice gaining altitude.

"Excuse me?" A little emotion then: irritation. He packed his sneakers away and turned to face me. He was much wider than me, few inches taller and a lot more powerful, older—but right then, I wasn't scared of him.

_Prejudice is just ignorance. _Hate just comes from insecurities inside ourselves, fear."What are you so scared of?" I spat, finding my tongue highly uncooperative.

"Besides you sneaking in here to peak at my junk?" Hatred. Sarcasm. But that underlying fear. His face betrayed nothing. He kept on packing.

"Oh, yeah," I yelled. "Every straight guy's nightmare, that all us gays are secretly out to molest and convert you. Well, guess what, Hamhock? _You're not my type_."

"Is that right?" A measure of that old threat. He inched closer, fists clenched and face twisted with barely suppressed rage.

"Yeah. I don't dig on chubby boys who sweat too much and are going to be bald by the time they're thirty," I spat. I knew he could feel my spit, but I didn't care. It just felt _so good _to tell him what I thought of him. My body was zinging with energy.

He raised his fist. "Do not push me, Hummel." His voice trembled with real fear. He was knowing what monster he had become. No threat. I wasn't scared. I was ecstatic.

Then again, he could whack me one in his fear. I looked at the shaking fist. "You gonna hit me? Go ahead. Do it!"

He slammed his locker. "Shut up!" he screamed, getting right up in my face.

"Hit me, because it's not going to change who I am. You can't punch to gay outta me anymore than I can punch the ignoramus outta you!"

I got it! I told him right. And I realised it for myself as I said it: I was never going to stop being gay, girlfriend or not. I was Kurt, for better or for worse.

"Get outta my face!" He abandoned all pretence of threat and begged me to leave him the eff alone, albeit screaming his head off, red-faced and getting way too close.

I stuck my finger between us, almost under his nose. This was just my rage now, my anger at the injustice of his actions that had built up over months and months, bruises and scraped skin that frightened me when I looked at them in class. Living my life in fear—no more.

"You are nothing but a scared little boy who can't handle how extraordinary you are!"

A lot of things happened at once. Karofsky's fists unclenched and grabbed my neck. I felt a flash of fear at the possibility of strangulation. Then his head came closer and up until the moment he angled his lips, I thought he was going to beat my brains in; Lord knew he could.

Then he kissed me. It was brief and panicked and his lips crushed mine; they would be bruised for days. He moved them like he was really trying hard. His sharp, jagged nails dug into my neck and scalp as he held on. My arm was trapped between us, and my hand clenched into a fist of its own, shaking with horror.

At last, Karofksy broke it. He backed off, his nails releasing my head. His hands stayed on my neck and shoulders, the touch much softer. He looked at me so pleadingly, to not reject him, to not say no, to tell him that he was okay. He was so lost and hopeless-looking; my heart broke for him.

I didn't even process that he had kissed me until me moved closer, going in for another one. I was shocked, frozen, but I moved instinctively the moment my clenched hand met his chest.

I shoved him with all the strength in my body. He was forced back a step but I ended up near the end of the lockers. I held my lips in horror at what he had done. What I had done.

_Karofsky was gay._

Or maybe he was straight with an attraction to _me._

He was where I used to be. And I had pushed him away.

Then again he had molested me. Kinda.

His pleading face became an expression I recognised. Self-hatred. Self-disgust. A complete and utter feeling of contemptment for yourself. He emitted a high-pitched sound of loss and raised his fists.

I flinched, prepared for the worst, but he slammed the lockers and left me alone with the ringing of the thin metal filling the echoing locker room.

***.***

I almost didn't trust myself to drive. My hands shook, my legs felt like jelly and the world became meaningless. I was trapped in my head, an endless cycle of blinding anger and all-consuming pity.

I drove myself home and busied myself making dinner, an elaborate homemade Asian takeout-style menu. Peeling ginger and crushing fresh and dried herbs calmed me marginally. I gained some free headspace, but soon there was nothing to do but let the soup simmer and the chicken marinate.

I sat at the wooden table I had already set and wondered if I had done the right thing. Karofsky needed someone to help him, but molesting the only gay he knew wasn't the smartest thing, no matter how big of a crush he had. Someone had to help him; I sure as hell wasn't the right person, but, then, who was? If he was gay, he needed so many things: a stable support system, a person to help talk him through this, confidence.

And, what about me? I was neither gay nor straight but a complicated version of bisexual. I had thought I was gay for years: wasn't I supposed to _like_ a guy kissing me? That was my—

I froze.

That was my first male kiss. Was that supposed to be my first kiss that really counted?

_Don't be ridiculous. Whatever you feel when Britt kisses you, that makes it a real kiss. Karofsky just jammed his mouth on yours; that's _not_ a kiss. That's just assault._

The sudden explosion ofthe _I Love Lucy_ theme song burst my bubble. I answered automatically, unaware of who was on the other end.

"Kurt, I thought we were gonna watch _Wheat Side Story_."

"West," I corrected, then I realised who I was talking to. "Oh, hi, Brittany."

She was not pleased.

"Where did you go afterschool? I was waiting and waiting and waiting, but you didn't come." She sounded so sad.

"Well, I got tied up with Karofsky." _Yeah, tongue-tied._ "And I told him that he shouldn't be treating me like this and, yeah," I ended lamely.

It was none of my business to out him.

A little high-pitched squeal. "Oh my God, that's so good! I'm really happy you did that."

I smiled tiredly into the phone. "Thank you."

"I'm sure that was really hard for you, but you did the right thing. He needed to know…"

I had never heard Brittany talk so much. Albeit, I was glad it was this issue she chose to be vocal about. Maybe she always had a lot to say but was scared people would make fun of her. I felt privileged as Britt continued to tell me how right I was.

"… someone should have told him all that a really, really long time ago."

"Thank you," I said again, trying to gently tell her to stop talking. I couldn't handle her on the phone, knowing I was hiding the most important part of the encounter with Karofsky, something that was beginning to tear me apart with a strange combination of guilt and fear.

"Well, I'll see you at glee tomorrow," she said, this time in a much better mood.

"Yeah. Goodbye, boo."

A click and she was gone.

I dragged my fingers through my hair and knew the ever-staying hairspray made me look like an echidna. My new biggest concern about my life at school had switched, once again, from Britt to the bullies. Karofksy: what the hell was he going to say to me at school tomorrow?

An insistent beeping made me jump out of my skin. Then I remembered my ginger chicken. Before I attended to that, I had to make another call.

***.***

Kurt wasn't really right. There was something wrong. He looked so unhappy, so miserable, there had to be something he wasn't telling me. I wasn't stupid. Now that I could see him, he was paler than normal, his eyes were little red bull's-eyes, he was totally slumped and he looked like a scared little squirrel around every corner. And he smelled really spicy.

I asked him about that and he smiled really dully at me and said, "I baked last night until midnight with cinnamon, nutmeg, chilli powder, and hot peppers. I've got cookies and cakes piled to the ceiling."

I knew right then that something was really, _really_ wrong. But he wasn't talking.

I thought I was going to Quinn's afterschool with Santana, a girls' night to kinda get all friendly again, since the baby drama and cheerleading and everything. Santana had told me that, at least, and to just wait out back by the football field for them to pick me up because Santana and Quinn had last period together.

I waited and waited and soon people were looking at me, because I was staying in the same spot with my hands all in my pockets and hunched over because it was cold and windy. I was wearing my uniform and my legs were really, really cold, like popsicles. I had found a pack of red liquorish in my pocket and started munching.

I must've stayed in the field for an hour, waiting for them, but then I went into the back bleachers to warm up.

"I really have to thank you for, you know, accepting me and not throwing me to the curb. And thanks again for coming."

"Oh, it's no problem. Seriously. You're normal. Let me do all the talking here."

"Hey! Kurt!" I waved up at them, but they didn't see me. There was one of those Warblers, in their fancy little jackets and ties. I started to run up the stairs but there were too many people on the stairs, totally in the way.

I finally caught up to them, but they were talking to Karofsky. I hid behind the tall metal bar and listened, waiting to see if Karofsky was going to hurt them. If he was, then I could tell him off. They don't hit girls.

"Hey, ladyboys," said Karofsky in his mean, mean way. "This your boyfriend, Kurt?"

"Kurt and I would like to talk to you about something," said the Gargler. He had a smooth, guy voice. He didn't sound scared at all.

He shoved past them and then saw me.

"Kurt told me what you did," said the Warbler.

But Karofsky wasn't listening anymore. "Hey, Brittany," he said nicely, coming much closer than I normally would've liked. "You think about my offer?"

I frowned, then remembered. "When you came to my locker looking like a kicked puppy afterschool yesterday and asked if I wanted to go to Breadstix?"

Karofsky blushed but said, "Yeah, you think about it?"

I looked at my shoes, nervous. "Yeah. I thought about why you were looking like a kicked puppy, or like Mr. Next Door's dog after Charity got to him." I walked around the corner and saw the super-surprised Warbler and a just as surprised Kurt. "By the way, you were right: neither Charity or Lord Tubbington are part of that cat burglar gang anymore. Thank you so much, Kurt." I went back to Karofsky. "I thought about it and sure, we could go to Breadstix for dinner if you want."

"_What?"_

I had never heard Kurt that high, even singing _Defying Gravity_. He sounded so hurt. He was really red and mad-looking. I looked at him. "What's wrong with dinner?"

"When you have a boyfriend, especially one as insecure as me, you don't go to dinner with other guys!" Kurt almost shouted.

I blinked. "Huh? It's just friends. I mean, he wanted to make out once but that's it. Don't you trust me?"

Kurt sighed, and rolled his head, like when he's really tired with me. Then, he saw the Warbler, who was staring with an open-mouth. Kurt laughed a little. "Everyone's a little behind the times, sweetheart. Blaine, this is Brittany, Britt this is Blaine. Blaine is gay, Brittany is my girlfriend. Karofsky, meet Blaine, Blaine, Karofsky."

Karofsky looked at Kurt with the same kicked puppy look as yesterday. "What?" He turned to me. "What?"

I smiled and waved, then quickly stuffed my hand back in my pocket. "Hi." I took a long step closer to Kurt. Karofsky looked at the two of us, so painfully.

"So, what about what you did?" said Blaine.

"I didn't do nothing!" Karofsky shouted at Blaine. He looked like Charity before she attacked a dog.

"You ki—" Kurt looked at me and paused. "You kissed me," he whispered.

"Huh," Karofsky sniffed at him, like _whatever_. "I don't know what you're talking about." His eyes were still on me and Kurt.

"I think you may be a little confused, and that's perfectly normal," said Blaine nicely. He sounded like he cared about Karofsky's confusion, whatever kind of confusion—Hold on.

"You kissed my Kurt?" I asked, looking between the three of us.

Karofsky blushed even deeper. "Well—"

"Did your lips touch his?" I asked, stepping closer. I could feel something I hadn't really felt since I talked with Santana in front of glee. I was angry at him. Really angry.

"Yeah," said Kurt from behind me.

Karofsky backed into the fence. "Why did—?"

"Brittany!" Kurt said, his hand on my shoulder. "Back off. The issue isn't that he kissed me. The issue is that he's confused."

"That's perfectly normal," continued Blaine. Kurt led me from Karofsky and closer to the stairs, stroking my am, so Blaine could talk to him. "This is a very hard thing to come to terms with, and you should just know that you're not alone."

Karofsky was starting to run away and Blaine chased him with his words. At _not alone_, Karofsky drove Blaine back into the fence and hissed like an angry cat. "You have no idea, of course I am!" he snarled right in his face.

I broke from Kurt and it took both of us to wrestle Karofsky off of Blaine.

"You must stop this!" Kurt said, throwing Karofsky back.

The two boys looked at each other for a long, long time. Karofsky was such a kicked, lost little puppy who didn't know where he was, and Kurt just looked alarmed, maybe even scared.

Blaine and I watched, leaning against the fence, completely quiet and hushed. Then, Karofsky went blank and looked at me.

"No dinner, then?"

"I can't make you straight," I said, even though I wasn't completely sure what the simple word meant.

"You—argh." He clearly didn't want to say this right here, but he did anyway. "You made _him_ straight!" He pointed at Kurt and nearly shouted.

"No, I didn't." Being gay was just such a part of Kurt that I didn't think anyone could take that away, but I was a little scared for a minute. "Did I?"

He shook his head fast.

"You've got a girlfriend, Hummel," said Karofsky meanly.

***.***

He meant that as an accusation and everyone knew that. Like it was a crime for me to have Britt.

I wanted so desperately to say something to him—anything—that would have made things right, to make him happy with who he was, accept what he did to me and Blaine was wrong, that who he was couldn't change, but most of all I wanted to explain to him how I was gay with a girlfriend.

I wanted to explain to _myself_ how I was gay with a girlfriend.

But I couldn't. I should've, but I couldn't. I'm eloquent in day to day conversation, piercing when I'm furious, but when it's truly needed, I'm worse than useless. I'm pathetic. I couldn't find the words because I pitied him, so I just said,

"Yeah. I do."

And adjusted my shoulder bag. Karofsky looked at Blaine and Britt. Blaine was leaning like a model for school uniforms—not looking gay but hardly straight—living proof that not all gays are effeminate like, sadly, me. Brittany was just the high school cheerleader, blond and perfect, long legs and short cheerleading uniform, and then I realised how deeply out of my league I was.

"Then kiss _her_," said Karofsky.

I didn't have to do anything. Brittany was glad to oblige, putting her arms around my waist and pressing her lips to mine. When she pulled her head away, she kept an arm around my middle.

I realised what I had just proved to Karofsky just a minute too late.

He was truly alone.

What was I going to do, set him up with Blaine?

Karofsky ran, shoulders low and a look of pure panic on his face.

"Well, he's not coming out anytime soon," said Blaine as soon as Karofsky was around the corner and bolting across the field. "So, this is your girlfriend you were telling me about? Blaine Anderson." He extended his hand.

Brittany looked at it, a little disappointed. I bit back a laugh and knew she wanted to hug him. She had told me gays give the best hugs. She let go of me and shook his hand.

"Brittany S. Peirce."

"Pleasure."

"Sure. Red Vine?"

"Uh… Why not?" Blaine looked at the blue half-eaten package of liquorish and took one that was surely frozen solid.

"Great. You want one, Kurt?" She stuck the pack under my nose.

Blaine was trying not to laugh as he pulled hard on the gummy red stick with his teeth.

"Did you know that Red Vines are originally made out of German wine, and that's why it's Red _Vines_. Because Germans say it like that." Brittany sounded so proud of herself for figuring that out.

Blaine started choking on his Red Wine. When he recovered, due to much coughing and black-slapping, he said, "I can see why you like her. She's very loveable."

Brittany grinned, kissing my cheek, and I felt that if a hole appeared in the ground right at that moment, I would have gladly jumped into it.

***.***

Mercedes was just coming from her last class. She had no idea how she had lost Kurt, since they had the same class and sat next to each other, but Tinkerbell had turned into the Invisible Man lately.

She said goodbye to Tina, wishing her luck with making up with Mike. She threw her stuff into her locker and groaned when she saw her hair. She _needed_ to remember to steal Kurt's hairspray more often. She looked like a porcupine.

She decided to go home and study for her science test—God knew she needed it—and took the shortcut. What else were shortcuts for? She lived just down the lane. She remembered when she and Kurt used to cut across the field in middle school for lunch to get to her house.

What was a _Warbler_ doing here? She remembered Kurt's semi-hysterical phone call when he had to imitate the Dalton uniform, since he had nothing even that even vaguely resembled it. Now, one was here to spy.

Mercedes hurried down the back bleachers, intending to tell this little white boy to bugger off, when she stopped. Karofsky was there, too. And that _had_ to be Kurt; no other guy would wear a sky blue coat that form-fitting. And a cheerleader. What the _hell?_

She continued down, meaning to yell and scare off Karofsky if this turned violent. Even worse, there were no other kids around. This was an abandoned staircase. Right now, Kurt didn't need back up.

"Oh my God," whispered Mercedes.

She had heard of things like this before: a group of students harassing a gay boy with intents of turning him straight. The cheerleader had very firmly kissed Kurt, who just stood there like a statue.

Mercedes zigzagged down the stairs as fast as she could, her heavy bag hitting the railings with every turn.

When she got down to their level, Karofsky was nowhere to be found and they were all chomping on some kind of liquorish, looking very pleased with themselves.

"Brittany?" Mercedes blurted.

Immediately, Kurt and Brittany jumped as if electrocuted. Their arms, which had previously been around their waists, let go and the Warbler snorted with laughter, ripping off a piece of liquorish.

"What the _hell_ is going on, Kurt?"

***.***

I laughed a little. "Well—"

"Blaine, just please. No," begged Kurt me hopelessly.

"You want to tell your friend? Hello, I'm Blaine Anderson." I extended my hand to the curvy black girl that seemingly appeared from nowhere.

She took it hesitantly. "Mercedes Jones."

"I don't think I'm getting along so well with your friends." I smiled in what I hoped was a charming way at her.

Kurt hung his head slightly in what I could only imagine was shame. It must've hurt so much for a friend to possibly find out something so personal about yourself that even _you_ aren't fully secure with yet. Just like coming out gay.

Kurt summoned every ounce of courage he had and plastered on a not-so-fake looking exasperated smile. "Mercedes, what did you do to your hair?"

It was a bit of a mess. It was clearly meant to be straight but stuck up in ways only a black girl's hair could do.

Mercedes puffed herself up like a chicken. "I ran down eight sets of stairs because I thought you were being bullied by Karofsky and a Warbler weirdo!" she said. "No offence, white boy."

I raised my hands in surrender. "None taken."

Brittany looked between her friends like a tennis match, some internal struggle obvious in her.

"Please, boo, don't," said Kurt in that same begging voice.

" 'Boo'?" repeated Mercedes incredulously. Her purse clattered from her hands as it fell. "That's whatya called her last time."

" 'Last time'?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Please, one confused person at a time!" exclaimed Kurt. "I had a minor identity crisis when I tried to force myself straight for my dad, the autoshop-owning, _Deadliest Catch_-watching, football-obsessing manly man. It included my playing with Brittany as my fake girlfriend."

"Things are totally different now," said Brittany. "I mean, Kurt actually touches my boobs instead of avoiding them like a cat avoids water. And—_and_ he lets me touch—"

"Darling, the bedroom stays in the bedroom," whispered Kurt. "Just like with Dad."

She frowned. "You said just don't tell him about us having sex, not me touching you."

Kurt groaned and looked like he wanted to punch himself out. He turned

"Oh, hell to the no," shouted Mercedes, complete with jabbing a pointer finger at him. "Someone tell me—"

"Brittany's my girlfriend, really," Kurt shouted back. "I love—spending time with her, I like the way I feel about myself when I'm with her. And, yes—surprise, surprise—I like the way I feel inside when I kiss her."

"And other things," said Brittany, linking her pinkie with Kurt's.

I swore a small twitch went off in Kurt's eye.

Mercedes stared at them with the same incredulous look. Momentarily, I thought she was going start twitching, but she didn't. A hurt look gathered on her face and Kurt's started to mirror hers, as though in sympathy.

"So, you love spending time with her and like the way it feels when your with her, like fucking her, even, and you don't care she's a girl?" She gave a watery smile. "Enjoy the straight, blond, perfect sex while you can, pretty boy."

And she pushed past them and down the remainder of the stairs before following the path Karofsky had previously taken.

Kurt bowed his head shamefully. He wiped his eyes with his scarf and sniffled.

Brittany, who had been swinging their interlocked pinkies enthusiastically, immediately came to his aid, pulling him into a close hug. Kurt didn't cry, per se, but he didn't let go either.

"Please, Kurt, don't cry. She'll get over this. You're BFFs, right?"

Kurt nodded after a moment's hesitation.

I shifted awkwardly, unsure if I had any right to ask what was going on. Actually, I was fairly certain that I didn't, but Kurt didn't say anything.

Kurt caught my eye and let go of Brittany, letting her keep an arm around his shoulders. "Mercedes, she had a bit of a crush on me last year just before I came out. I told her I was gay personally and she took it… well, but I'm not sure if she had ever really accepted that best friends were all we were ever going to be. And now, I've got a girlfriend—blonde, cheerleading girlfriend—" Brittany smiled proudly at that "—and now, well, guys don't exactly come flocking to Mercedes for dates. And, um." Kurt turned bright red. I tried not to do the same; he was just so adorable when he was embarrassed. "We only had sex once, when I was drunk."

I let myself laugh at the image of Drunk!Kurt.

Brittany stopped stroking his shoulder for a minute. "Are you still mad about that?" she said quietly, well not really, because Brittany never said anything quietly.

He waved a hand. "Of course not, boo. No harm meant, no harm done."

I shook my head. This was one of the oddest relationships I had ever seen and that included the uptight Wes's tryst with what was apparently the daughter of a stripper. Good times.

Kurt acted like the most stereotypical gay, the type that would appear on _South Park_ and _Family Guy_. Fashionista, effeminate, diva, high-voice, immaculate appearance, Broadway ambitions. And he was literally arm-in-arm, making google eyes with the school's blond cheerleader.

"So, would you like to go for coffee or find an empty corridor and make out?" I smiled innocently, reminding Kurt of his previous offer.

Kurt glared daggers and hitched up his man purse. "Coffee."

"Hot chocolate," added Brittany. "Lemonade, iced tea, hot tea—"

"What're you doing?" I asked as we walked down the stairs.

"Isn't that how this game works? You just name drinks?"

"No, darling, just no."

***.***

Today had caused more problems that it solved. Instead of the happy resolution of Karofsky sobbing into a shoulder (preferably Blaine's school blazer) and accepting his sexuality, we had created a monster who knew I had dirt on him and had become scared and mad—in short, violent. I also had lost my very best friend to an old crush and deeply wounded pride. What lays beneath any sass are deep, deep insecurities.

Mercedes's was her body and the fact that guys didn't take to it. Even Puck's affair wasn't really a fling: it was a mutual using of one another's status.

I was one of the few guys who had openly told her that she was beautiful and thought she would make an incredible girlfriend for some lucky guy—which was always, inevitably, followed by the teasing of me giving her a shot, and me saying "Yeah, if I ever like girls".

I had just betrayed her in a way that wouldn't be healed for a very long time.

Not that that was for lack of trying.

After coffee with Blaine and Brittany, Brittany said she was going to, in short, raise hell for Quinn and Santana who had tricked and dumped her, which left we free to do what I wished, and what I wished was for Mercedes to pick up her damn phone. I called her house and got her dad, who was big on academics, and told me she was studying so goodbye.

That meant I wasn't allowed in the house, since our last "study session" ended with watching _So You Think You Can Dance?_ on a live-streaming website and me getting kicked out.

I almost wished I had Brittany over to take the edge off my misery and guilt.

And I definitely wished I had more room for baked goods.

If Mercedes weren't so hurt, she would be over here, asking for gossip on Brittany and my relationship while we split a pumpkin spice with vanilla lava cake. I admit I should have told her and, yes, my prediction about Brittany's inability to know the difference between private acts and public acts had gotten me in trouble, just like I knew it would.

What pissed me off most about the whole ordeal was the fact that while I was sitting, staring at a piece of picked-apart blueberry and double drunk orange cake with self-disgust and impatient anger leaking out of my ears, I had no moral foot to stand on.

She was completely right.

It was Mercedes's biggest fault.

At last, my phone rang with Beyonce's _Single Ladies_. I answered before she even sang a note.

"Mercedes, I'm—"

"You've got three minutes to convince me to not hang up. Go."

It was more than I expected, to be honest.

I needed to tell the truth, but there was just so much. I took a deep breath.

"Brittany thought I was miserable, which was completely true, so she got me drunk and slept with me. I woke up in a state of utter confusion and revulsion. She helped talk me down from my hysteria and kissed me. She was so nice and caring and I genuinely liked being kissed by her because it felt like she really cared about me, it was exciting and fun and made me feel shit I'd only ever heard of in 1940 romantic epics.

"We went on a date to Breadstix and I had more fun than I had had in a long time. She was funny and considerate and innocent and smart. I drove her home and we made out. She respected a boundary we had never talked about, which was touching below the waist. She knew the stop; she was gracious.

"She made and continues to make me feel like I'm important, like I'm not a freak and that someone can care for me with all my flaws. That beneath all my attitude and vigour, my sass, Kurt the Diva, there is a person who is worth the respect and care she has given me."

I said all that in under three minutes. I talked so damn fast I don't think she understood half of it, but she got the gist and that was that I was serious and that this was an out and out accident but one that I wasn't about to mend.

She was quiet for such a length that I thought she had hung up.

"You do care for her," she said emotionlessly.

I knew it wasn't a question, but I answered anyways. "Yes."

"She cares for you."

"Yes."

She sighed into the speaker and said, "Kurt, I'm gonna try all I can to not be jealous and not to ruin this thing for you two. To be happy and glad that you've found someone because it's about damn time."

I smiled. That last part was more like the Mercedes I had hoped for.

"I promise you, that the day after Britt and I break up, I'll come crying to your shoulders and we can go for a date."

I could tell she was smiling now. "Yeah. Sure. All right then, pretty. So, let's get down to the business of this. How far _have_ you gone?"

"Come over and we can talk," I offered. "Volunteer my kitchen."

"Question: have you been baking recently? Because, this week at school, you've smell like a pastry chef on a high road."

"You know I have," I said lightly, even though we both knew that I didn't bake excessively unless there was something seriously wrong. However, we both also knew that once I offered my kitchen to talk about the problem in, I was much better.

"See ya in ten."

Click.

I finished my picked-over and now dry and crumbly piece of cake before getting another plate and the boxes upon boxes of cookies and the cake domes out of the rarely used cupboards.

Within half an hour, Mercedes and I were sitting at the table with eight different open boxes and twelve different kinds of cookies between us, along with three cake domes and four slices. It was a scene we hadn't repeated since my dad had a heart attack and slipped into a coma, and before that when I was having the oh-so-memorable Butch Kurt identity crisis.

"So, now. How far've you gone?"

"Technically sex, but I was drunk, like I said." I had turned away to wash out a tin that we had just emptied and was grateful for the slight privacy.

"I meant, how far do you _remember_?" Crunch, crunch, crunch. "What're these again?"

"Ginger snaps with chipotle extract," I said automatically, now drying the tin. I felt my ears turn scarlet.

"Bad topic?" said Mercedes apologetically.

"Uhh, well, it's iffy for sure." I chuckled. "I'll tell you when I loose my conscious virginity, promise."

"Pinky swear?" said Mercedes slightly mockingly, extending her finger.

I shook it every which way before putting away the empty tin for its next fateful use.

"Right, so go through the entire dinner at Breadstix in detail. I want to know _everything_. C'mon, sit."

I sat opposite her. "First, you must tell me something," I said seriously.

She heard my change of tone and nearly dropped her cookie. "Of course."

"What do others think of my new and improved relationship? Any of them have an idea?" I asked, dreading the answer.

Mercedes bit her lip thoughtfully. "Well… Santana is definitely suspicious, but you probably already knew that. The guys, well, I haven't been around them lately with the whole gender competition. Quinn and Tina I don't think know anything—Rachel's oblivious to anything that doesn't revolve around her, so, you're safe with her."

I laughed, mostly because it was true.

"So, I think you're safe, Mr. Bowie."

"I don't even know—well, I guess I do." I slipped lower in my chair.

Mercedes eyed me carefully. "What's wrong with David Bowie? I thought you were a fan. You've got his Ziggy Stardust poster somewhere."

"Yeah, I just… I'm a little scared of the word bisexual," I mumbled.

Mercedes caught the drift, though, and reached over the baked goods to pat my arm. She had to have remembered my rants against bisexuals. "There's different kinds, like levels. If one is gay and ten is straight, you're maybe a two or three."

I smiled. "Yeah. I guess." I had never thought of it like that and enjoyed the idea of being a three. "Let's not have my dad walk in on us with all these desserts, shall we? I mean, there's a reason I hide them." I chose a cookie.

Mercedes picked a slice of cake. "Ya know, I don't think your _DanceDance_ game is going to work off all this food," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

I started laughing and then she joined in and we couldn't stop. Right then, I could pretend that everything was normal—no girlfriend, no life-changing sexuality problems, no jealousy—and that we were just celebrating my dad awakening from a coma.

We couldn't stop laughing when Dad walked in and stole a handful of cookies. I didn't even have the will to reprimand him.

***.***

**The current mental states of ****the characters are the following (because I'm starting to patch off even further from the beaten track):**

Kurt - satisfied and accepting of Britt but still a little ashamed, attracted to Blaine, but angsty and guilty about Mercedes

Karofsky - absolute self-loathing

Blaine - minor crush on Kurt

Mercedes - jealous but willing to put it aside

Brittany - happy with life in general, but still wishes Kurt would come out

**I've got a very big question/request and that's for plot lines, mini things that can be added while I figure out which episodes to write about. Anything from cats to Britt's little sister (terror or tattletale?), to Kurt cheating on Britt with Blaine (which will murder me to write :'[ ), other members finding out one by one without Kurttany coming from their closet. **

**Any ideas at all would be highly appreciated! :)**


	7. Blood & Fire

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Not ever. I would've started season 3 off better and never let Lindsey anywhere near Glee.

**This is my adaption of the episode s02e07: The Substitute.**

WARNING**: There is a little bit of "going further". There's nothing explicit, but you'll know when it starts; it ends with the next bullet for those who want to skip. Frankly, since I think it's bad writing, you might want to for that reason only.** **Betas for sex-ish scenes are free to apply at any moment.**

* * *

><p>Yellow does not cheer people up. Despite what Brittany liked to think, my mood was still in the gutter. Still, here I was, I was wearing my long yellow knit sweater and a pair of sunshine rain boots.<p>

All day I had kept my head down and tried to not draw attention to myself. If no one noticed me, Karofsky would hopefully forget me. Every trip to my locker I kept short and made sure I was accompanied; I ran to the nearest Starbucks for lunch and waited in the under-heated café for the bully to trump up the stairs and disturb the quiet room of university students and businessmen.

But he didn't.

My day was more peaceful than most. My ESK (Emergency Slushie Kit, consisting of a universally matching shirt as well as a complete change of clothes, hair products and a tough stain-remover for the blue and green varieties) wasn't even needed. No shoving, no pushing, no punching and no beating up.

Still, I was miserable.

While I knew about Karofsky, he also knew about me. He could destroy my Liberace-infused, ultra-feminine, extraordinarily gay social image before I was ready for it. Essentially, my life was a nuclear bomb with two red buttons, so there was another reason to stay clear of Karofsky.

I clicked open my locker and smiled at the greeting I had pasted together on the inside door. A double portrait frame in chrome with a cropped picture of Brittany from a Cheerios photo-shoot in the sunshine in one side and Blaine's over-gelled and careless-smile school photo from the Warblers, which I had stalked the World Wide Web for. Beneath the two photos I had made mini collages formed from cut out letters of _Cosmo_'s latest issue. They spelled _CourAgE_ and _UNIcORn._

I smiled as I looked at that scene, revelling in my triumph of the day, even though it wasn't all my—

Slam. Crash.

_Son of a bitch!_

A lock swung into my knee and I clung to the door of my locker instinctively, my head swinging with the momentum and smashing into my magnetic penholder, scattering my writing utensils through the hallway while the holder clattered harmlessly at my feet.

I fell on my ice black jeans and felt the incredibly uncomfortable sensation of too-tight pants stretching over my body. I winced as I landed and looked up through my newly messed up hair.

Karofsky looked at me warningly from the end of the hall, as if daring me to argue. I wanted to, so badly, to call him out again and tell the world his secret. But I didn't, because I couldn't. I wouldn't want him to do it to me, which he would, if I did.

So I stayed on the ground with my jeans uncomfortably stretching, the overwhelming feeling of pity and helplessness coming over me again.

"C'mon, pretty boy." And a dark hand was stuck under my nose. "Wipe them tears."

I took the hand and stood up, avoiding Mercedes's eye. I stuck my magnetic holder on the door again. I picked up my bag again and crawled for my pens, knowing the grey dust patterns would be sprinkled on my knees. My hands shook a little from shame, making the pens chatter; my cheeks reddened.

When I stood up, Mercedes caught my shoulder and I felt her finger on my cheek, brushing away the hot tears. The sudden affection startled me and I jumped back, clanging the penholder back to the ground.

"Sorry," she murmured.

I nodded, picking everything back up again. "That's okay. It was my fault," I whispered to my shoes and—oh good Lord—my knees were spotted grey like I feared. Practically shaded army camouflage.

"I—"

I turned back to Mercedes but she was biting her lips. I waited, closing and slipping my lock into place more slowly than needed, but she didn't finish her thought.

"You've gotta get to the choir room. Your boys are gonna kill ya if ya don't," she said, subdued, her head hanging slightly.

I pursed my lips. Anything I could think of to fix this, to act like we were normal, could be taken wrong. Readjusting her hair, which had fallen out of place—too much physical touching. Asking her where she got her jeans (which were new, a little blingy and fit her perfectly)—she might've thought I was hitting on her.

_How does a guy ever handle this?_

So I just nodded like a bobble head and made uncharacteristic grunting sounds to her meagre attempts at chitchat. We passed Brittany, which hardly made our already stale atmosphere any better. Brittany knew that, though, and just walked into the choir room, wishing me a friendly luck that I thought turned Mercedes a little green.

Soon we were in the choir room and I was swept up into a flash of shining blue blazers and what Puck called "waiter shirts". The dressing room (which was really Mr. Schue's office with the blinds shut) was a tight fit and I felt honoured that the boys felt comfortable dressing in front of me—albeit, they did it quickly and while I was attempting to find the magic ratio of hair to spray with my back turned. But they did.

Sam was humming _Stop!_ under his breath until a warning look from Puck shut him up.

Then, it was time to face the crowd. The chairs had been dragged from the bleachers into a semi-circle and in them sat the girls, Mr. Schue and Beiste. I was torn between feeling shame and pity on behalf of my teammates and curious to see if the practise was worth the punishment. I'd have to remember this for Britt.

She grinned at me when we filed out. I swore Puck said something about looking like penguins but the boys gave a nice, heart warming speech, but all I could think about was how Brittany's eyes kept flicking back to me and how Mercedes kept her head lowered.

Before I was really prepared, the senior started whacking the drums out and grudgingly the boys followed my choreography, with snaps and 80s arm-waving included. Thank God Mike talked to them and tweaked it. The hip-rolling made me blush to the roots of my hair, though, when Santana and Britt started to make dirty faces and dancing in their seats.

Then the boys all went to their girls (Finn to Rachel, Mike to Tina, Sam to Quinn and so on), and I was supposed to go to the third person from the left, who was meant to have been Brittany, but her and Mercedes were sitting in the wrong spots.

I looked at Artie, who shrugged and kept wheeling forward to Britt. We couldn't break line, look sloppy and lose the competition. So, I started to sing the last lines of _Stop! In the Name of Love_ to Mercedes with my hand on my heart. And since my voice was layered with Finn's, the final lines of _Free Your Mind_.

I know, yay.

"_Stop! In the name of love. Before you break my heart. Free your mind and the rest will follow. Oh, think it over. Free your mind and the rest will stop."_

Somewhere after the first _stop_, Mercedes realised she was being serenaded and jerked her head up. I had already pranced (literally, Mike's word) around to behind Bieste and was in the final pose, the last note leaving my lips, by the time she looked at me.

I felt like such a moron, an insensitive, brutal coward. But this was about the boys, not me, so I laughed with the rest of them and I faked that smile through the rest of class, where Mr. Schue let us have some hang out time and Mercedes kept up a lively stream of conversation about music and clothes. That smile even stayed when Brittany joined us and Mercedes didn't seem to care, when Brittany and Mercedes both walked me to my locker and said "That sounds like fun. Have a good time" when Mercedes asked me to check out a new shop with her at the Lima Mall this weekend. Even when Mercedes invited Brittany to the Mall and Brittany pulled us all into a group hug. And even when she kissed me—four inches from Mercedes.

It didn't fall until I realised Mercedes, while she was trying hard, was faking her happiness just as much as I was.

***.***

Coffee is good. Whipped cream and little tiny chocolate chips and spots of cinnamon that get stuck on your face so you just end up using a spoon. Very yummy. I had waited for maybe an hour, drinking coffee after coffee until I could feel it go _buzz_ in my ears. I was nervous and scared because I knew Mercedes didn't like me very much anymore, and I hoped she would come before Kurt so we could talk. For that, I needed confidence.

Coffee is good.

I finished my fifth (or sixth) one when the little bell went off and I saw Mercedes come in with no one behind her. I waved her over and she ordered a kind of iced coffee before sitting down. She didn't look happy.

"Hi," I said, wishing I had something to do other than look weirdly at her.

"Hey."

Silence.

"I wanna talk about Kurt."

Mercedes sat back and held her head. "Oh sweet Jesus, no."

"Are you having a vision?" I asked, sliding around the bend to get closer.

"No. I just." She laughed a little. "Vision?"

"Yeah, like prophecy." I shrugged. "Why not?"

"I'm just a little pissed you got Kurt and he doesn't like me. That's it. I wanna try and make things cool between the three of us again. Okay?"

I nodded, confused at her angry voice. "You're still friends with Quinn, even though you like Sam and she has his promise ring."

Mercedes took a really long drink of her coffee until she made a face and held her head again.

"Vision?"

She shook her head. "Brainfreeze. Kurt made a promise that—"

"Hello, girls." And Kurt sat down. Of course. He sat down between the two of us, pulling up a chair from another table and opened his scarf. "What did Kurt promise?" His smile was a little hard.

"That—that—oh, shit, you know what we're talkin' about so let's just get it in the open." Mercedes raised her hands. "You promised that if you ever liked girls, you'd give me a shot."

Kurt's fake smile fell and I really wanted to pat his hand and hug him but I thought Mercedes might bite me if I did. There was something really eating him that he wanted to say.

"Just say it," I told him, chewing my little stirrer stick.

"That was a joke, 'Cedes," he whispered.

"You shouldn't break a promise," I said warningly. "Not even a fake one. Every time you break a promise, a unicorn loses its magic because unicorn magic—special-people magic is made from being true to what you are and not being scared to show it. You're scared to show it when you lie and break promises."

"So, I'm less unicorn if I break a promise?" He looked at me with a little smile, tilting his head.

"You're a unicorn, but you're still figuring out what you are, so—be true to whatever you discover you are." My teeth almost ground together on the stick; it was so tiny.

Mercedes was looking at me like I was crazy. But I know I'm not.

"Kiss her," I said, picking out another stick from the little arrangement on the table.

Mercedes choked on her coffee and Kurt stuttered.

"W-w-what?"

"You're serious?"

"He should give you a chance. Maybe I'm just a weird thing he likes, but… go on." I pushed Kurt's shoulder a little.

"H-h-h-here? Now?"

"I'll go to the bathroom." I started to crawl from my side of the bench. "Here, take my spot so you can get closer."

I didn't see until I was in the green and white bathroom that this could be a very bad idea. Kurt really _could_ be into Mercedes. I'd be second place. Again. Guys typically wanted some fun and my body but I thought Kurt wanted me—like, real me. If he kissed her, he might think that she was better than me.

And now I had left Kurt with Mercedes and her gold jacket, tight-tight jeans and her complete tan.

What the hell did I do?

I almost smacked my head into the tiles.

***.***

To be totally honest, I had thought about kissing Mercedes before. I know—gay—but she was a pretty girl and I liked her a lot. She was really the first good friend I had in a long time and that means a lot. My body's hormone deposit was later than most people's, so I started wondering what it would be like with boys and then—like the nosy person I am—girls, but Mercedes was the only potential girlfriend I ever imagined. Even a month ago, long after the half-baked, not-very-fulfilling fantasies had ended, I would've said that if I were to wake up and believe I were straight, Mercedes would be my girl.

Now, sitting about the same distance apart as always, it took every ounce of my willpower to slide into the fabric booth and get close enough for a possible kiss. She looked a little surprised, but pleased.

I don't know what my problem was. Mercedes was a lovely girl and looking particularly pretty this day, with special attention to her hair and make-up, a little more on nice clothes. And she had a figure I had been told was desirable—a round bum and big… well, breasts. And I felt like Kissing Cousin George at the Redneck Family Reunion.

But, still, I tried to keep an open mind and put an arm around her and scooched a little lower in my seat to adjust for what was quickly becoming lanky height. Her outside hand held mine on the table and I tried to feel it—I really, seriously did. It was warm, the pressure was good, but the way her fingers stroked my hand bore no similarities to when Brittany did it. There was no meaning behind it.

Still, open mind.

She broke the last two feet, guiding my head gently with her other hand. And my lips met hers.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing.

No rush of heat, no rush of blood, no brain-oozing sensation, just nothing.

Her lips were smooth and she tasted like coffee and cinnamon—hardly a bad taste. She moved them gently, nicely.

Up until then, it was nice, tolerable and the feelings were nice but there was no inner spark, no _whoosh_ of life that I was accustomed to. It was like trying to tickle yourself, moving your fingers in exactly the same manner, same pressure, same technique—yet a little bit off, the sensation lacking meaning, an inner reaction. My lips felt resistance, a little dampness, but my stomach didn't knot. My hand was being held, but there was no urge to push her down and have my way. My hair was played with, I felt the scalp being graced, but there was no heart-pumping, mind-screaming, in-your-face, world-melting inside joy.

Nothing.

I was scared I would have to imagine Brittany, but there was no way that this could be mistaken for what I responded to with Brittany. Maybe Mercedes sensed it, maybe she was into it or thought I was (I was moving in relative unison, reacting but not responding), but she, to quote Puck, tried to "slip me the tongue".

I let her, if for no other reason than curiosity. Then, I had to break it. I did it gently, slowly bringing it down and leaning back, all the time my body wired, on tenterhooks. It didn't feel right to be looking into those eyes from this perspective.

"How was it?" she asked, a little breathy.

Slimy. Ew. Dead fish flappy.

"I have only Brittany to compare it to," I said honestly. Mercedes waved her hands in a _go on_ way. "So, you are the second best kisser I've ever had—"

"But I'm also the worst." She thought. "What about how it felt inside?"

"That was the problem. You're not a bad kisser." I wondered how long until I could pull my hand away.

"How did it feel?"

Empty. Dead. Meaningless.

"Not especially good."

"So, nothing or worse than nothing?"

"I wasn't disgusted, never worry about that." I laughed sharply; she smiled with me. Looking at the table, she released my hand. Freedom. "It felt like nothing."

She nodded like a bobble head, constantly up and down.

"May I pose a question?"

Bobble headed nod. "Go ahead."

"What if the issue isn't gender, it's that I can't have feelings for _you?"_ I thought I phrased it too harshly, but Mercedes didn't.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so stupid. I thought that since you liked girls, that meant all girls—not a person who happens to be a girl."

"I'm sorry for what I can't feel," I said. "Apology accepted, though. Can we bury the hatchet?"

"Truce."

And we shook hands. I knew things couldn't ever be exactly the same, that there would be a touch of awkwardness, but we had reached an understanding and I learned (or at least practically experimented and proved right) about my unusual attraction to Brittany.

Not too shabby.

At least I didn't feel like scrubbing my mouth out with soap.

We talked for a little while, the bland chitter chatter of movies and the new shoppe, which was the newest in a boutique chain that supposedly catered to the "real woman". I was hoping to find a scarf or maybe even a sweater (God knew I couldn't really afford a damn thing in there) and Mercedes had been saving her allowance for a dress, hopefully for prom. They didn't know our lack of funds; we dressed up, definitely. She gradually became more animated as the tension melted.

Now, I don't think I could even say we were avoiding the elephant in the room; it was just regular conversation with a girl and I missed that.

Eventually I saw Britt coming out of the hallway labeled "Washroom", looking very concerned and stomping in an almost Rachel Berry-esque way. I moved from Britt's seat and took to my uncomfortable kindling wood chair reluctantly, but the booth was not big enough for the three of us unless Britt was sitting on my lap and, frankly, I wasn't about to push the truce.

"How was it?" Brittany asked in her pretending-to-be-okay voice.

I shrugged noncommittingly.

"You've got nothing to worry about, girl," said Mercedes, drawing deeply on her icy.

Brittany brightened up considerably. She took my hand from my lap and squeezed it under the table. "I'm happy."

Mercedes's mouth twitched into a half-smile. "I can see that."

Brittany swayed in her seat to the harmless, tuneless jazz, content to just listen to Mercedes and me talk, stroking my hand to the beat. Mercedes smiled, but there was no pain in it, and she made some kind of joke about Britt being attached to my hip as she inched closer, almost falling out of the booth.

She stretched and kissed me on the lips lightly, just for a moment, teasing before falling back to her chair, grinning and leaving me with the tidal wave of strawberries. Smell, taste… good God.

Mercedes and Brittany shared a girl-joke (the kind that even I couldn't join in) about my dazed expression, Mercedes actually shaking her head and saying, "Boys…" in that vaguely condescending way.

I blushed to the roots of my stiff, over-styled hair, glad that they were getting along but willing to kill my own father if they would do it any other way.

***.***

The coffee shop the three of them chose as a meeting place was hardly empty; rising conversation as people came and left with scalding drinks, few people staying and reading the Saturday paper, steamy couples wrapped up in winter gear and each other, and a small section, a running booth down one wall that curved into a corner beside the counter and supplemented with spindle chairs and tiny tables.

At one of these tables, with papers, pick-one job offer tickets and textbooks scattered across four different tables I had pulled together, sat a flustered and uncomfortable me. I had already called four of the job tickets I had pulled from a laundrymat I had passed on the walk over—babysitters and dog walker types—and none of them could accommodate Glee, one babysitting gig and two dog walkers, my job at Wal-Mart, as a pizza boy, and leave enough time for this mountain of homework.

It tore me to pieces to see my parents fight and I knew it was money. Dad got demoted and Mom had to find a job, something she hadn't done since I was really little. Money was beyond tight. I used to be able to ask for a twenty to head to the mall, but now I could use a metal detector in the couch to find more offerings.

Money was happiness. I loved my family and my little sibs were young enough that they didn't really get it; it was my responsibility to get us back on our feet before we were really in the poor house.

I slammed a Chemistry textbook, startling a nearby couple. I didn't care. I ran my hands over my blond hair and thought of Quinn, how I was probably going to turn grey by twenty, and how I wished I could have a break.

I looked up, resigned to another hour or two of algebra and Spanish, and instead saw Brittany walk in. I promised myself that I was just going to talk to her, but only after this one piece for Mr. Benididtas. Then, I could have a break and chat with the slightly ditsy girl. Not that Brittany wasn't nice, she was just a little dumb. And apparently, a caffeine addict.

Mr. Benididtas's work finished, I lay back, a physical weight actually lifting off. I slurped the last inch of luke-warm, sugary coffee and looked back at Brittany's table. I had looked at it quite a few times—with those legs and that neon skirt, it was hard not to. The Eskimo fur hood was cute, too.

This time, when I looked up there were two others there. One was clearly Mercedes; I could see her face. The other had to be Kurt Hummel. Even though I could only see the back of his head, no other guy I knew wore jeans that tight combined with a leather jacket with that shape to it.

Huh. I decided not to join them; it was a girls' party, probably shopping or gossip or… whatever the girls do with a guy like Kurt. I'm not homophobic, I just know that Kurt likes being around girls and girls like being around Kurt. Two sides of the same coin, as Dad would say.

On to Mr. Schue's Spanish essay, then. I dragged the translation dictionary towards me and immediately decided to get another coffee. At this shop, it was almost blasphemy to order something that took only one breath to say, but I did anyway.

"One medium coffee, black."

The barista looked at me like a freak and I thought for a minute that she was going to do that thing where they pretended they didn't understand regular sizes. She punched it in and accepted my crumpled up bills.

"Oops, sorry, Sammy."

I smiled instinctively at the name; only Stacey called me that. Brittany came into view, patting my arm as she brushed by me. She grinned at me and my eyes trailed down to her skirt as she walked away… and what the hell was Kurt doing? He was practically cuddled up to Mercedes, arm around her and their heads way closer than they should've been. He moved only when Brittany came, taking a chair opposite the girls.

"Hey, you listening, Sammy?"

I took my change, imagining throwing my scalding coffee that was burning my hand through the useless paper holder. Brittany was now holding Kurt's hand. I went to my seat and was going to dig back into my homework—I swear—but there was just something weird—

"Oh. My. God."

Brittany just leaned over, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and stuck her lips on Kurt.

"Good sweet Jesus."

He even angled his head and loosened his jaw, almost inviting Brittany.

I felt like I had to wash my eyeballs with bleach. Kurt with… a girl? Just wrong, like—like—like Puck and Finn in the locker room.

I ground my fists into my eyes and groaned, another fresh, horrific image scarred onto my eyes. I opened my eyes, prepared for another onslaught, but there was nothing. They were gathering their coats on and a jangling of bells told me they were leaving.

I leaned back, feeling almost buzzed from the shock. That was _so_ much more than a friendly-Brittany kiss that was a—a—a fuck-me-kiss. I mentally cringed at that image. Like most dudes, I guessed that a gay guy as feminine as Kurt was a bottom in a guy-guy relationship and now… now…

Brittany was really hot and all, and Kurt was okay in his own way, but this was not something I was going to think of. Then again, it was none of my business.

I forced my head back down and began cram/translating Schuester's Spanish essay, that cringe-worthy image of Brittany Pierce and Kurt Hummel together in the back of my mind.

***.***

At that moment, I understood the full power of the teenage male libido. Two words, ladies and gentlemen: Brittany. Topless. Maybe three: excited. Brittany. Topless.

Her perfectly manicured lime and hot pink nails pulled me closer. Her warm, wet tongue attacked my mouth. My own lips and tongue felt very nearly raw from kissing her and sucking little pockets of skin on her neck, releasing them with the automatic smile as the oh-my-god sounds she made were processed.

I didn't give a damn about hickeys right then (my ultimate nemesis) and I really didn't care about going slow when the hand that had been on my hip (a personal spot) moved 'round to the front, and her assault on my mouth doubled.

Now, I was never extremely vocal. I was relatively quiet, gnawing on my lip and gasping as such, and did something right then that I would be a little ashamed of later, but recognised it as a milestone in my sexual exploration.

I moaned like a whore.

After the initial shock, I realised Britts wasn't kissing me anymore. I opened my eyes. She was grinning like I had made her year. I was balancing on three limbs, nearly ready to release her breast and just collapse.

"Please." I didn't even know what the hell I was begging for. Well… maybe, a little. "Please."

Her hand sped up a little and I nuzzled her neck to hide the sound. I could feel it building, deeper than any other time I had masturbated (yes, that secret should come out, too, I suppose). I felt she was still smiling at me. She stroked my hair and kissed my forehead and eyelids. I know it sounds pathetic and unmasculine, but I couldn't find the will to stop her, it felt so good. My view was limited to her magnificent chest, my fingers gracing and tipping the nipple of the furthest one, but that was fabulous.

She deftly undid my belt and zipper.

I waited, breathing heavily, but the only movements she made were to touch my hair so lightly I could scarcely feel it and her chest rising and falling with her breaths, her golden locks of hair flicked over with every other breath, shimmering in that wonderful way with the candlelight.

"You can just let go, Kurt," she whispered, placing her lips just above my eye. "I'm not scared, just do whatcha wanna do."

If I had done that I definitely would've lost my virginity at that moment.

At that moment.

I inched up a little higher and kissed her hard, digging my fingers into my bedspread as I felt my crotch press in against her leg.

"You're so quiet, Kurt," she said in between kisses.

I nodded, muttering some sound of agreement.

"Guys are normally a little louder. It turns me on," she said breathily. With the last word, she rubbed her leg against me and I moaned. Again. Like a slut. She kissed me again, the outline of her smile against my mouth.

She pressed my leg inside, so I was between her legs and she tugged my jeans down as far as she could. I jumped up and instantly yanked them off myself—there was a trick with these, to jerk them left and right around the knees before they would come off smoothly. I only ever wore them to impress someone, like Mercedes to fix our—

I utterly lost my train of thought at the vision of Brittany sitting up to watch me. Her breasts were perfect and rounded, soft light and shadows thrown around them. Her hair was hanging around her shoulders, a little lank and wild from the day and the lack of a straightening iron. Her legs were thrown to the side and she was leaning on her hip, still in her Cheerios skirt. The best part was her face. There was so much compassion and anticipation and love—no matter how steamy this got, how lusty, it was love. Her blue eyes stared at _me_. Not my crotch—which, you know, I wasn't impressing myself with. The point of "average" is that most are those… specifications—just me.

I leaned down and held her head in both my hands to kiss her. She fell back, got on top, me on top—god, I didn't know and don't to this day.

I just know that after a tissue, much sweating, hard breathing, loving snogs and caresses, I was lying in her arms, more in love than ever.

I was content just to be with her. I felt a tad guilty for not returning the favour, but she insisted that she would let me another night; tonight was mine. My room was hot and the nearby, flickering flames along with Brittany's rhythmic breathing and hair stroking lulled me to a half-asleep state, I was blissed out in a way that made me shed a tear.

***.***

Mr. Schuester wasn't out of the room for ten seconds before Rachel stormed down the stairs and to the whiteboard. She picked up the pen he had dropped in his flu fever. She stabbed the word **Me.** on the board.

"Class, in Mr. Schuester's absence, I'd like to go around and ask everyone what solos they'd like to hear me perform at Sectionals," she said brightly, really not seeing how annoying she was being.

I looked at Kurt and shook my head. He turned pale, a nasty look on his face. Behind us, Santana jumped up, waving her hands, nails turning into claws and getting longer—like Lord Tubbington's. Sam and Puck and Finn grabbed her elbows, holding her back.

"All right, you know what? Let me at her!" she yelled. "_¡Tú eres loca!_"

Rachel screamed like the girls in horror movies, dropping the pen, and running from the room. Finn let go of Santana and went after Rachel, calling that everything was fine. Sam and Puck and Santana went_ crash_ into the front chairs.

I went down and helped the three of them up. Santana was really, really mad. "Who the hell does she think she is?"

"Queen Rachel," said Kurt flatly. "We're her court."

"That's just _it!_ I'm tired of her," said Santana. "No one gets anything. It's the Finchel Extravaganza."

"I can't even remember the last time I sang," said Tina.

"I never did." Mike shrugged, like _No biggie._

"At least I did _Toxic_," I added.

Quinn sat beside Sam, nursing his arm that had went _crash_. "The duets."

"The very fact that we can list off the times that we get to sing is wrong," said Kurt, standing up and taking the whiteboard marker from where Rachel dropped it. "We should at least get to audition."

He wrote **AUDITION **beside Rachel's **Me.** and turned back to us. "We need a ballad and two group songs, with lead vocals on both." He wrote **Ballad** and **Groups** on two ends of the board. "Sign up where you want and we can show Mr. Schue this when he gets better. Make a stand."

Instantly, everyone ran forward. Almost everyone signed up for lead group and everyone but Mike did for the ballad. Sam and Quinn wanted a duet, so I thought I'd sign Kurt and me up. When I did, Santana gave me the _Look_, but didn't say anything.

We all went our different ways until this last period before lunch was over. Tina and Mike and Mercedes and Kurt were playing the piano so it sounded clunky, with Kurt shaking his head and laughing at them. Sam and Quinn left the choir room, and Santana grabbed my arm.

"Can we make things better?"

"I didn't think there was anything wrong," I said.

"Do you want to go shopping on Friday after school?" she said. I had never seen Santana this nervous—twisting her fingers, not looking at me, head down.

"Sure."

She pulled me to a chair. "Did you know my brother got his sentence reduced?"

"Really?"

"He'd been trying forever to switch the jail time with community service, but now it's only two years house arrest with…"

I zoned out a little while Santana kept talking and talking, and knew I was completely forgiven for everything I didn't (or couldn't) do.

Kurt was really pretty. I had never really realised it. I mean, it was one thing when a guy looked really hot in bed, or kinda sexy during the day, but pretty was a whole new level. He had such a pretty, girly face with curly, whipped cream sprayed hair, but the way he dressed made me remember that he was so much more.

I looked behind him at the unconnected, bright red, kinda faded marker on the board. _Kurt & Brittany_. I kinda wished Kurt could hurry up and sing _I Kissed a Girl_, especially since we had gotten to third base, he was doing a lot more than kissing a girl.

***.***

Brittany walked so close to me that I thought she was trying to push me into the lockers. She pecked me on the cheek and left me and Mercedes; Mercedes's constant stream of chatter didn't even falter.

"That dress looked fabulous and you know it," I said at last. "You had the money and it's not like you're going to be put into the poor house any time soon."

Mercedes sighed. "It was so flippin' much, though. Hi, Sam." Her voice changed dramatically from the sassy diva I knew and loved to an almost teenage girl voice. Wow. Chemistry much.

I smiled at him as I juggled my textbooks while simultaneously searching for incoming slushie missiles and kept my loose scarf from unravelling from my neck.

Sam looked a little awkward; didn't blame him. I took over the took over of Glee, had talent pouring from my ears, and the boy was surrounded by so much oestrogen it had to be saturating the air.

"What up?" I said. It was something the football guys used in common conversation and I hoped it didn't sound nearly as bad as I thought it was.

Sam started laughing. "Not much, man." He slapped my shoulder, nearly knocking me off balance. I smiled weakly. I had never felt this much like one of the guys. I preferred to be one of the girls, to be honest.

Mercedes started talking about the recent football win, and the awkward light died in his eyes. As the talk continued, we walked to the cafeteria, Mercedes suddenly forgetting her science work—we were supposed to study this lunch—and had to run, looking like she was going to cry.

Sam and I were the quieter ones, and when we reached the cafeteria, I expected him to go to Finn and Puck and the ilk, but he didn't. He stopped, looked at me seriously and said, "Uh… could we maybe talk in private?"

I stared, praying to whatever listening that he was not going to come out gay. This would be too much temptation. Blaine… Sam… Brittany. A man can handle only so much.

We went to a deserted hallway. I crossed my arms and tilted my left hip out; it was a basic stance for me that I was told I adopted far too often.

"Okay, so?"

"So." Sam breathed hard. "This is probably none of my business at all, but… I was at the Flava Grind last week, you know, that coffee shop in Lima Heights Adjacent."

My blood ran ice. My eyes glazed over. My heart beat so loud that I swore Mercedes could her it on the other end of the school. My vision specked with red and black. My hands trembled, the fingers rapidly draining of warmth. My arms fell uncrossed and the strength began to drain from my body, and my sight was consumed by black tunnel.

"Whoa, Kurt." He reached out a hand and grabbed my arm, his other arm reaching around to guide me to sit against the locker, my head in his shoulder, my rear sliding across the filth of public school floors, instead of crashing into a dead faint.

"You know," I said blankly against his woollen jacket.

"I know nothing," he said hurriedly. The words came slow to my ears; the understanding even slower.

I sat up higher. "You're lying. You saw Brittany kiss me. The girls tease me about my… her."

Sam didn't say anything. He released my arm and slowly took his arm from my shoulders.

"My girlfriend." I whispered the words to my Converse.

Silence. Dead silence. I mean, what do you say when the gay guy who wanted to be your duet partner and had a decent sized crush on you admits he's got a girlfriend?

"Oh."

Yeah, _that's_ what you say.

"Brittany."

"Uh-huh. Cool."

Just as my blood was beginning to return to a dynamic equilibrium of pace and temperature.

"Cool as in…?" I said, turning to look at him.

"That's okay. Heart wants what the heart wants and all that, right?" Sam shrugged, obviously awkward and uncomfortable.

"Please don't tell anyone." I was ashamed of the begging tone.

Sam seemed insulted I would even think he would. "Dude, you nearly fainted from me even suggesting I knew. If anyone else knows, it's from the flirty way you talk to Brittany, the little hugs and kisses and the joined-at-the-hip-ness of you two, not from me."

I nodded, attempting to stand and trying to make a mental memo to not be so flamboyant with Britts. "I need sugar," I said weakly, my vision swimming again.

Sam was tensed, ready to catch me if I fainted. I was tempted to faint, just to be caught in his arms.

"I'm okay," I said.

"You're pale, like _Casper the Friendly Ghost _pale," warned Sam.

"Least I'm a friendly ghost," I said, dazed. "Going to clean up. Bathroom. Then lunch. Then tutor. Mercedes," I added at the look of confusion on his face. "Science."

"Look, I'm not leaving you until you can string together complete sentences," said Sam authoritatively.

I rolled my eyes and pushed open to the door to the nearest bathroom. Surprise, surprise, Sam followed me. We weren't really good friends, but it looked like he had a strong sense of responsibility.

I tried to tell him how I wanted him to think of me—as bi leaning so far on gay that I almost was—my peculiar attraction to Brittany, but not other girls, and that I loved her, really, truly did, that this wasn't just a confusing fling for me. That this was serious.

My words began to form sentences, my heart calmed and feeling and awareness was returned to my environment. I felt much better in the horridly fluorescently lit, green and white tiled, disgustingly filthy bathroom. I washed my face and combed my hair back into place while my complexion reverted to its natural hue of pale.

I think Sam understood, or at least tried. And that effort made the difference. I began to wonder why I was so frightened, catatonic, maybe even hysterical about people knowing. Those that understood were the good people that mattered and those that didn't shouldn't matter. I tried not to think of what Finn would think—Finn, who was scared I was stalking him last year.

When I was as normal as possible under the circumstances—actually, I felt like I could take over the world, the power of self-confidence surged through me as I realised how futile my fears were—Sam and I went back to the cafeteria and I met up with Mercedes. Seeing her again made the Glee Club fiasco come back again and made my blood boil.

After pleasantries were exchanged, trays picked and excuses given, I gave voice to my normal, big concern. "I'm shaking. And it's either from low blood sugar or rage. I knew it was only a matter of time before Rachel tried to take over the Glee Club."

"We'll forget all about it tonight at bowling," said Mercedes calmingly.

"Can't. Blaine asked me to hang out," I said automatically, eyeing the flatbread sandwich with grilled chicken.

Mercedes looked at me disbelievingly. "I've been looking forward to it all week."

"Would you like to have me, you and Blaine go bowling?" Briefly, I imagined him without his Warbler's uniform—_in normal clothes_. Oh, wait… _Oh._

"No, but… wait, you aren't having feelings for him, are you? Because then you've got to come clean with a coupla people."

"What? No. We just hang out. I think we could, I mean, if I were single." I lowered my voice to a whisper. "But I'm not and few people know that better than Blaine." I stopped whispering. "Sometimes, it's just nice to talk to someone."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Mercedes, following me like an angry goose.

I looked meaningfully at her. "I mean someone like me, as close to me as possible, at least." I thought of Karofsky, but he was too much of a gay recluse. "Someone who's had issues about who and what they are."

"Yeah. All right." She sighed, understanding.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise. We'll hang out Friday night."

When I looked up, a yoghurt parfait in hand, Mercedes had an almost lustful look in her eye and I followed her line of sight in confusion. Tater Tots? I trailed after her with my lunch.

"Whoa, whoa, a couple more," said Mercedes, much happier as the lunch lady filled a Styrofoam plate with tots. "Thanks." With a new spring in her step, we found a table after paying.

"So what are we gonna do about Glee Club while Mr. Schue is sick? We going to wage World War Glee against Adolf Berry? With Kurt Churchill and Mercedes Roosevelt?"

"As much as I wish, no." I grinned down at her. "Have you met the new Spanish teacher?"

I briefly outlined my first period of the day and my English class the week before, and the potential of this substitute. Mercedes began to warm to my idea and I knew I was going to ask her next period before our after school practise.

***.***

I was running late. I knew it. Last class of the day, we had been kept late and Blaine started texting me and… time just got out of hand. I finally checked the time at the top of my iPhone and saw that just how late I was. I knew Miss Holiday wouldn't come for a while, but… whatever.

I caught sight of Miss Holiday through the door and sped up, trying not to run. I sauntered in, ready to introduce the awesomeness of—

"Whoa!"

I literally landed feet up. I stood quickly, brushing myself down and feeling the slippery oil of butter. Puck's face said it all. I stood behind Finn with my arms crossed, trying to maintain any dignity I could.

When they started swapping names, I rolled my eyes, anxious for the way Holiday would dispatch them.

"Those aren't your names," she said in that condescending way that didn't seem annoying from the tall, blond woman. She talked like Santana. "You know why I know that?"

"You're psychic?" said Brittany, a note for real concern in her voice.

"I know this because I recently watched a video of you guys performing at Regionals, where you came in last. Maybe it's because the songs were about thirty years old," she scoffed.

"Those songs are classics," said a hurt Finn, the typical confusion on his dopey face so adorable.

"Those songs are amazing, but they sounded like somebody else's favorite songs. Not yours. Just sayin'."

"She speaks the truth," said Brittany in awe.

Holiday stalked towards the group. "I'm not your average, run-of-the-mill substitute teacher. I want you guys to do things that you want to do. I want you to have fun in our fabulous but fleeting time together. What do you say we have class outside today?"

"It's raining outside," said Mercedes, not totally convinced.

"Well, then let's take a field trip to Taco Bell!" she said. Cheers followed this idea. Even I, who wasn't too fond of Taco Bell, clapped along. "Should we take up some medical marijuana?"

Silence. Puck and Finn exchanged looks of anticipation.

"I wish," sneered Holiday.

Cheers and laughter again.

"It's really hard not to like this woman," whispered Finn with a smirk.

And Boring Berry kicked in. "Okay, _no_. We can't just goof off all day. We have to write a setlist for Sectionals."

I raised en eyebrow to the whiteboard, which still bore the faint lines whiteboards get when writing hasn't been erased regularly—the lists of people who want to sing, but aren't given the chance.

"You're right," said Holiday in that same Santana, condescending voice. "What songs would you like to do? …. Oooh. Don't get asked that question much, do we?"

My time had come. "Miss Holiday is right." I stepped forward and sat beside Mercedes. "Mr. Schuester's setlist sometimes seems like he hasn't listened to the radio since the eighties."

"He never listens to what I have to say," said Puck. "I wanted to do Cee-Lo, _Forget You_, but he—"

"Cee-Lo!" exclaimed Holiday. "That's what I'm talking about."

"Snap, whoa. Excuse me? What would you know about Cee-Lo?" said Santana snarkily. "You're like, forty."

"Top 40, sweet cheeks. Hit it!"

The band kicked in with a song I had heard all too much on the radio. The Cheerio girls contributed the "oo-oo-ooo"s and back-ups with overdone sass. Frankly, it was the most fun number we had done in a long time. It was just silly, olde _fun_, dancing with no choreography and singing to each other with no biased solo distribution. We all got solo dancing with Holiday and got to sing when we wanted to sing. Rachel just sat like a lump on a log, miserable that she wasn't a star and dying to tell us off for not taking this seriously.

"Let's go get tacos!"

And tacos we got.

***.***

I wanted to see the auditorium. I was needing a Britney fix, so I grabbed my copy of _Circus_, which was always in my locker, and went to the auditorium, planning to sing and dance to _If You Seek Amy_ and a few other tracks.

But someone was already there. And this was not just a _Oh, my God, I need my fix_, it was a big, emotional, _This is killin' me and I need to say this_ kind of thing. I just heard that from the first few notes.

There was a big book of songs with lyrics and stuff opened up on a table backstage. The stupidly thick book (who would ever read all this?) was called _West Side Story: Complete Works_. And the song was called_ A Boy Like That._ The little CD player told me in green lights that it was track eight.

I looked back at the singer, the lyrics, then the singer again.

"Oh."

The singer was Santana.

_"A boy like that_

_Will give you sorrow_

_You'll meet another one tomorrow_

_One of your own kind_

_Stick to your own kind"_

I was going to leave, I swear, but I couldn't. This had to all be cleaned up. So, I took the lyric book and got a hand of the rhythm of the song. I think I skipped a verse, but that was okay. Santana would get my point.

_"It isn't true, not for me_

_It's true for you, not for me_

_I hear your words_

_And in my head_

_I know they're smart"_

She was so surprised, staring at me in shock with fish eyes.

_"But my heart_

_Knows they're wrong_

_You should know better_

_You were in love_

_Or so you said_

_You should know better_

_"I have a love and it's all that I have_

_Right or wrong, what else can I do?_

_I love him, I'm his_

_And everything he is_

_I am too_

_I have a love, and it's all that I need_

_Right or wrong, and he needs me too_

_"I love him, we're one_

_There's nothing to be done_

_Not a thing I can do_

_But hold him and hold him forever_

_Be with him now, tomorrow_

_And all of my life"_

I meant every word. I really did love Kurt, even if he wasn't ready to hear it. Santana looked at me very, very sadly but sang the last few lines with me.

_"When love comes so strong_

_There is no right or wrong_

_Your love is your life"_

A long time after the song finished and the CD player shut off, we stood staring at each other. I closed the book and put it back on the table.

"I know this was meant to be private and—"

"I was just practising my singing," said Santana quickly.

I interrupted her. She was lying anyways. "I know this was meant to be private and all, but I don't want you to feel like this even inside, and pretend everything's okay when it's not. Like Kurt's gonna hurt me and I'm going to have that broken heart all those singers sing about."

She walked closer to me, her high heels sounding like gunshots. "I just… I have… I don't want you to get hurt." That wasn't what she wanted to say and I knew it, but if that was all she was going to say, that was okay, too.

I hugged her close and told her I was going to be okay. "Remember, there's no right or wrong when it comes to love."

She stepped away. "Yeah. Believe me, I know." She squeezed my hand tightly and walked off the stage the other way.

Suddenly I wasn't feeling like a Britney fix.

***.***

"I think I'm meant to feel pretty badass about that," I said, laughing.

"Comparing Kurt to Tony of the Jets?" said Blaine, clearly trying to hide his laugh. "A bad-end-of-town gang leader?"

Brittany giggled over her mountainous whipped cream and caramel hot chocolate. "I guess." The tension melted off her and onto the mini chocolate chips.

I could tell that Santana and Brittany were having problems and I'd be an idiot to think that it wasn't affecting Britt. She became subdued, until her poor memory turned into a gift and she threw herself whole-heartedly into the present.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why Santana felt so passionately about me.

I sat down Blaine's black coffee and pointed to the mouse-holding-onto-the-teacup-for-dear-life porcelain creation that sat in the middle of my table. "The milk comes out of the mouse's tail," I said. "And the sugar from the teacup's handle."

Brittany grabbed and unhooked them, and offered to pour. She was the one who had bought them when Karofsky started bullying me. I always thought they came from a dollar shop, but it was the thought that counts and Brittany's thoughts could never be bad.

Blaine accepted the offer and Brittany enthusiastically dumped about a quart of sugar into his cup. "That good?"

Miraculously keeping a straight face, he said, "That's good, thank you."

It must've been horrendously sweet and, after Brittany turned the mouse upside down, was almost white, but Blaine seemed to enjoy it.

"I thought we were gonna watch _So You Think You Can Dance?_, maybe pick up some tips for competitions," said Blaine.

When Brittany jumped to get the popcorn bowl big enough to hold a person (it could truly be called a cauldron), I took the opportunity to ask Blaine about _RENT._

"You got two tickets, right?"

"Oh, yeah." He sipped the coffee again.

"That must be awful," I said sympathetically.

"Can I get another one?" he asked, his shoulders shaking with laughter. We dumped the milky, sugary concoction and Blaine took another one.

He was still even in his uniform, always coming directly from his boarding school, his stiff collar limper and his shiny shoes a little dustier.

"Were you thinking of bringing Brittany to _RENT_?" asked Blaine.

I shook my head. "No, but, I think Mercedes is feeling left out."

_I know._

"There was only two left," said Blaine apologetically. "If something else comes up, I'll make sure to get a third, maybe fourth and we can fake double date." He smiled. "Pinky promise."

"Brittany's rubbing off on you," I teased.

"You gays coming or not?" shouted Brittany from my basement.

" 'Gays'?" repeated Blaine, poking his head up. He was rummaging in my pantry.

"Whatcha looking for?" I opened the doors wider.

"Sugary snacks and fizzy pops. You are way too healthy." He came back up with a six-pack of Cokes and a bag of Gummy Bears.

"Don't bring the bears," I warned. "God above, don't bring the bears. I learned the hard way. Brittany loves them. She'll make a colony that lives in popcorn huts and are involved in a bitter a race war—it'll be Red vs. Yellow."

He considered, then smirked and took the Gummy Bears and ran with them.

"You're so bad," I chuckled, shutting the doors.

I could hear Brittany's happy shriek of surprise from upstairs.

***.***

Before I could even say hello, Mercedes interrupted me—and Kurt, too, since he probably wanted to say hello.

"Look at this crap." Mercedes threw something back on her plate that looked like paint mixed with whipped cream. She looked at me meanly. I hoped she knew I didn't mean to make her miserable. "Foam fish sticks? Principal Sylvester's only serving pre-digested food now to give us more energy," said Mercedes with disgust.

Kurt and I sat down gently.

"I mean, do I look like a damn baby bird?" she said loudly.

"Don't fret your culinary disappointments," said Kurt excitedly. "I come bearing gifts."

"You brought tots?" demanded Mercedes.

"Better. I've set you up on a date." Kurt smiled Supermanly. "I get it. My new budding friendship with Blaine and romance with Britt is making you feel left out."

Mercedes perked up. "Who's the guy?"

"Anthony Rashad," I said.

She looked behind her at Anthony, winked and waved, but didn't look happy. "Why him?"

"No reason," said Kurt fast.

"He's hot and on the football team," I said.

"Nothing to do with him being one of the five black guys at this school?" said Mercedes, more annoyed than before.

"He's wide receiver on the football team, he is very good-looking and is a member of the Black Student Union," said Kurt.

"I just said that," I told him.

"Any non-black activities?" asked Mercedes, glaring like Santana.

"I don't know—" started Kurt.

"He dated Santana. That's not a black activity," I said.

Mercedes groaned. "I can't take this anymore."

Kurt put out a hand to pat hers. "Mercedes, just trust me, love is just around the corner."

Just then, David Cariski walked by to sit with the football guys and said, "What's up, homo, homoette?"

I felt Kurt go stiff beside me. And not the good kind. He just froze, staring at David, almost turning completely around. His eyes got really big and his mouth fell open a little; he grabbed my hand, which was on my knee, and almost broke it.

"It's okay," I said. "Everything's fine."

He looked at me and there was this real panic in his eyes, like he was scared. He was so close, I just wanted to hug him and tell him that I wasn't going to leave him—

"**_TOTS!_**"

"Oh, my God!" Kurt released my hand and threw his arms in the air in shock, before staring at the revolution.

Mercedes was on the table with a big sign with "Tots" written on it in bright purple. She did not look happy. She needed some Gummy Bears.

Everyone was shouting "Tots, tots, tots!" and punching the air. All the Cheerios were around Sue like an army. I thought I should join them, but I didn't want to leave Kurt.

I could hear Sue from the table and thought I had chosen the wrong side: "The Tot Wars have begun!"

***.***

"So, what do you say to dinner, me, you, Britt, Blaine?" said Kurt.

Well. I thought that would be a good idea. Free dinner, spend some time with Kurt and get the dinner price cut in half with the "Double Trouble Date" special on Wednesdays.

Britt was more than a listener, and then three divas who like to talk and two that want to pull Kurt in half. Plus, Blaine and Kurt had way more in common than Kurt and I would ever have. They had issues I could never imagine—the most basic part of yourself… blah, blah, blah. So many different ways of saying it. And believe me, I learned them all.

"I'm just saying, drunk people who get married to someone they met an hour ago by an Elvis impersonator… I mean, that's the bigger insult to marriage than two gay guys getting hitched," said Kurt, sipping his Shirley Temple like it was hooked to him like an IV that was pumping adrenaline into him until he was practically shaking with passion and ginger ale.

"Totally. It's, like, if marriage is so sacred, they should just outlaw divorce. Right?" Blaine was probably the only one who wasn't sucking on his straw like he wanted it to shoot into his brain. I didn't want to check; my eyelids were so heavy and my ears were ringing.

"Right, right. Totally."

I vaguely heard this. I was half asleep with my Coke straw stuck in my mouth. Brittany was sipping her virgin piña colada delicately between her lips, ripping a napkin into tiny squares and trying to arrange them into… something kinda resembling a kangaroo.

"What do you think, Mercedes?" said Blaine.

I jerked awake and struggled to remember what was the last thing they said. "Oh. About, uh, 'don't ask, don't tell'?"

Blaine smiled. Was—was that an arm around Kurt? Brittany was sitting next to me. "It's dolphin marriage now," she said, watching the two of them like a tennis match on pause.

"Prop Eight, honey," corrected Kurt gently.

"Totally for it," I said instantly.

"Against it," said Kurt, Blaine and Brittany at the same time.

"Right, I'm sorry. I just kind of blanked out," I apologized. The boys' flirty debates were so "Me, too! *squeal*" that I couldn't bare to watch Brittany smile and nod along to her boyfriend.

Blaine waved a hand. I swore his arm was around the booth he shared with Kurt. "Oh, don't apologize. We should talk about stuff that _you're_ interested in, too."

I perked up, imagining talking about music and fashion—maybe we shared some T.V. shows?

"I know," said Kurt. "Let's play a game. Okay, count of three, name your favourite 2010 _VOGUE_ cover. Okay, ready? One… two… three."

"Marion Cotillard," both the boys said.

"Barbra Streisand," said Brittany.

Even I knew that wasn't right. Kurt had a subscription to _VOGUE_ and always fanned them out in his basement; if Barbra had made an appearance, Kurt never would've shut up.

"Isn't that what she is?" asked Brittany.

"What's your favourite work of Barbra?" said Blaine, turning to Kurt.

"She's a Broadway legend," said Kurt. "Absolute _legend_. A star in so many forms of art. I mean, Blaine, there's so many works to choose from…."

I started to doze again. Gay… gay… gay. I know, my best friend is the ultra-lady fabulous Kurt Hummel, but there is only so much gay a girl can stand during a dinner.

Somehow, I was staring at Kurt's hand, the fingers curled around something pink… like a purse?

"Mercedes? Mercedes? Mercedes?"

I forced myself to focus. No purse. He was just leaning forward. "Hmmm?"

"I was just asking if you were into sports," said Blaine. "I'm a college football fan. I like sports, too, you know," he added confidentially.

"Oh, way to break the stereotype," said Kurt. They shared a high-five.

"Very shark," added Brittany. Three way high-five.I flagged down the waitress. "I know it's not on your menu, but I was wondering if you guys…"

"You must want some tots," said the waitress understandingly. "You kids go to McKinley."

We all nodded.

"Go Titans," said Brittany. The boys pointed to her uniform.

The waitress made a note and left with a smile.

"So, what were we talking about?" I asked with a new spirit.

"Has anyone read Patti LuPone's new book?" asked Kurt, grappling for a topic.

I hadn't and I thought Blaine and I had found common ground; he looked so confused and Brittany was just not a reader. ("Is that the one about the rabbit?")

"I'm kidding. Of course I have!" exclaimed Blaine.

Kurt turned sideways and playfully hit him in the striped, ironed tie. "You scared me so much there."

Brittany was smiling thoughtfully at them.

"I know, I know," said Blaine.

I rolled my eyes and slammed my head on the table, frustration and anger burning. "Oh, god."

***.***

I knew the Double Trouble was definitely double trouble the moment it was over. Talking constantly and paying Brittany attention for her witty interjections was okay… for Brittany. I should've known Mercedes needed much more than her two cents, maybe a few bucks. The four of us were a group that would never work and I needed to apologize for our behavior.

"Mercedes," I started, ready to explain.

"Psst!" she said quietly. "Look what I snuck in," she said excitedly. "My heart was _racing!"_ She pulled out a pink-lidded Tuberware box of tater tots.

"Are you out of your mind? After what you did to Sue's Lecar? You're gonna end up in prison," I hissed at her.

There was that strange light in her eye that I had mistaken for lust. Now I knew what it was.

"So? You know what they have in prison. Tots!"

It was happiness. The pure, naïve belief that everything was perfect and anything that wasn't was ignored until it disappeared.

"I'm not breaking it off with Brittany—"

"Don't worry, boy," she said with that same happy tone that was beginning to disturb me. "I'm not into ya anymore. I've moved on."

"—and I'm not breaking it off with Blaine. I really like Brittany and I love spending time with Blaine. You are substituting food for love, Mercedes. And more importantly, feelings or not, you are substituting me for a boyfriend. Look at me. A month ago, I thought there was no way I'd ever find someone like Brittany. And there she was. You will find somebody, but until then, you just got to take care of yourself. And treat yourself with a little respect."

It was mean and humiliating, but she needed to hear it.

She looked at her box of tots thoughtfully.

"You're right. I gotta go." And she walked right by me. I hoped I hadn't hurt her too much.

"Where?"

"I'm gonna go talk to Anthony, even if he is Santana's ex. First time I saw him, I thought he was kinda cute." She shrugged, looking shy, that light fading fast. "Maybe we have a shot."

I smiled at her retreating back and silently hoped she could be happy.

A strong hand gripped my shoulder and I was already bracing for impact, but it never came. I was face to face with Karofsky and an open locker, an opportunity too perfect to miss to throw me into my open locker again and knock its contents out. But Karofksy looked like a frightened animal, dangerous and on edge. My blood ran cold.

"Question for you. You tell anyone else what happened? How you—you kissed me?"

I didn't think he would hurt me, but you never know. "You kissed me, Karofsky," I retorted, preparing to be hit. Karofsky turned and shh'd me. "I understand how hard this is for you to deal with, so no, I haven't told anyone."

"Good." Relief spread across his face like the common cold through a classroom. "You keep it that way. 'Cause if you don't, I'm gonna _kill you_."

He didn't touch me. Didn't come within a foot of me. But I was more frozen than ever. Not when Sam admitted he knew. Not when Karofsky kissed me. Not when I woke up next to Brittany without my clothes. But I was more shocked, more stunned and more terrified than if he had beaten me to the ground and raped me in the hall.

Then, I saw Brittany. I didn't really register her. My sight was meaningless. I just felt her hug me around my middle and I slowly came back to reality, almost shaking with fear. I put my arms around her neck and inhaled the smell of strawberries, thankful she didn't ask me what was wrong.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>If there's something a little off with the font, I'm sorry, I couldn't change it in Doc Manager. :(<strong>

**I've now decided that one episode will be condensed into one chapter, so while I will maintain updates to one every 10 - 14 days, they will be longer. Like this is 10,000 words long. Oops. :p**

**Opinions, thoughts, complaints, compliments, suggestions and beta-ing are always appreciated. **

**Especially about the semi-smut scene. Since I couldn't bare to actually write the progression of Brittany and Kurt's sex life as thoughts, I had to write a little scene. Very, very sorry to all those smut writers.  
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	8. My Wild Days

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Not ever. I would've started season 3 off better and never let Lindsey anywhere near Glee.

**This is my adaption of the episode s02e08: Furt.**

**I've tried to balance the original story of _Glee_ and the influence of Kurttany.  
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><p>"—and that is how you conjugate irregular verbs." Mrs. Nealsonne circled the explanation on the board in vain. Mrs. Nealsonne couldn't control her class and my sympathy had worn out a while ago, not to mention my patience.<p>

My extensive practise and experience watching French shows made me practically fluent. I was very glad that the class was a warzone of eraser shavings and spitballs; it made for an excellent blow-off class to doodle and think of Brittany and performances I would never execute.

Over the chaos, somehow Mrs. Nealsonne heard the knock on the door. She poked her bird-like head out, then pulled it back in. "Mr. Hummel?"

Only teacher that called us by our last names, did I mention that?

I scooped my notebook and novel back into my bag and left, confused. There was Dad and Carole, looking positively giddy with excitement. They each took one of my arms and Dad said, "All right, son, where's Finn?"

I looked from one to the other. "Um, he had a spare, so he's probably at his locker."

"Lead the way," said Dad, both of them still holding my arms.

I led the way, winding through the hallways until we saw the dopey, horizontal-striped-sweater'ed and jean'ed Finn.

"What's going on?" he asked slowly. "Is this one of those interventions, 'cause…?"

I saved him the embarrassment of trying to guess. "If it is, it's for the both of us. They bombarded me and forced me to bring them to you."

Dad started waving at Carole over me. "Okay, come on, tell 'em."

"No, no, no, you. Go on."

I nearly rolled my eyes and giggled. They sounded like an old married couple.

"No, we said in the car—"

"Come on, you, _you_."

Dad let go of my arm and stood beside Finn, Carole was still clinging to me, stroking my arm, bouncing with anticipation.

"All right," started Dad proudly. Carole moved into a half-hug with him. "You know how I drive Carole to work every Tuesday? Well, today I drove here, and we snuck into that classroom where Kurt introduced us… very romantic of me, I might add… And I—"

Carole exploded beside me, waving a left hand with a—_No!_ "He proposed! He proposed!"

I stared at Finn, then Dad and Carole while my ears buzzed with shock. Finn's mouth dropped open an inch into a perfect oval; I wasn't sure if he heard correctly.

"Wow. This just happened?" said Finn.

I sighed, clapping my hands in awe. "Oh, Dad!" I was inspecting the ring, very impressed with the C's. I started to look at it differently, though. My own wedding, which I had been planning for years, might end up very differently… I pushed the thought aside for the moment.

"We wanted the two of you to be the first to know," said Carole.

"Yeah, after the kids in that homeroom," said Dad, cocking a finger back. "Come on, family hug, huh? Okay? Come on!" He pulled Finn and me much closer than I think Finn was comfortable with. I felt a bubble of contagious wedding-buzz excitement that started to grow.

"I'm so excited and nervous," admitted Carole.

"Oh just don't be," I said, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "Oh, my God, this is just what I needed. I will take care of it from here. I have a trunk full of wedding magazines hidden under my bed." At this, Finn was giving me that dumbo look and I knew he was thinking more of a hidden stash of porn. "I'm thinking of a russet and cognac theme. Those are colors, Finn. Fall wedding colors," I said condescendingly.

Dad waved a finger at me. "Nothing too extravagant, Kurt, okay? We're gonna use whatever savings we have. We are spending it on the honeymoon. That's right. We're going to Waikiki. We're gonna go to the hotel where they put up the guest stars on _Lost_."

"Finn, you—you haven't said anything," said Carole, a note of worry entering her delight.

Finn shook his head like a dog. "Uh, I'm just—I guess I'm just kind of stunned." He sounded it.

"Come on, honey," pleaded Carole. "Be happy for me."

"I am, Mom," said Finn unconvincingly.

Dad turned to me and pointed a finger seriously. "All right, now listen, Kurt, Mr. Wedding Planner, I want you to take care of one thing. I don't care about the food or the booze at this party, but I want one heck of a band. I've been eating right. I've been exercising. And I want to boogie with Carole at this wedding. And I will boogie," he said sternly, striking a memorable move from the eighties. Maybe seventies. Finn and Carole were in stitches.

I thought for a minute. Cash-considerate and awesome… It came to me almost instantly.

"It's already taken care of, Dad. I'm going to hire the New Directions as your band," I said proudly, the specifics of the wedding already being considered. Dad might say he didn't care about booze, but if I didn't get some good liquor he would be very, very upset. "It won't cost you a cent. They're cheap, they're available. Long story short… you're having a Glee wedding."

I clapped happily, inches from squealing.

"Mr. Schuester can sing _Sway_, he's got a fabulously smooth voice for it," I started at high speed. "It's a classic dance song, slick and was covered just recently by—"

"All right, Kurt, slow it down. You can figure all this out with your Glee Club," said Dad gently. "It just better be good!"

And Carole and Dad left us alone, most likely to make phone calls to everyone they knew for an engagement dinner. I was going to be busy tonight with the—

"Doncha think?" said Finn.

"What?" I pulled my head from my concerns for the evening. Brittany might be able to be my sous chef, God knew that Finn would be the clumsier option.

"It's a little fast, to get married, isn't it?" said Finn uneasily.

"Finn, I thought we had that conversation when we moved in." Maybe we could make salads; that would be better for a large group, wouldn't it?

"Couldja not say 'we' like that?" muttered Finn.

"The point is, love is love, no matter what time frame its in," I said with a sigh. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to plan a menu, invitations, decorations, and setlist for the Hummel-Hudson wedding," I said purposefully.

Finn turned green at the mention of "Hummel-Hudson wedding". An obviously horrific thought occurred to him.

"I won't have to change my name, will I? 'Cause if Mom's getting married, the wife takes the husband's…" He trailed off. "… and take yours?"

"Finn Hummel?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"

Finn visibly cringed and I couldn't help but laugh. "Sorry. Not funny," I said instantly.

"It kinda is," said Finn, smiling awkwardly. "But, on the topic of strange relationships—" My smile hardened "—every time I go down in your 'Do Not Disturb' basement, you're hanging with Blaine Warbler and Brittany, cuddled up next to one of them. Is there something going on with you and Blaine?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. Brittany wasn't his worry, not even on his radar. Just like Dad, he wouldn't know until he caught me and Brittany making out. Or worse. God, he needed to know and know soon.

"No, absolutely not."

Finn moved closer and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, despite no one being anywhere near us. "You know, it's okay. It won't be too much like Rachel—Jesse; Blaine's not a scumbag and we all know how lonely you've been lately."

I shrugged, offhand. "He's nice, handsome, gay—but he's not my type."

Finn didn't look any deeper, closing his locker and saying, "See ya later," before passing me and clapping me on the shoulder.

I headed in the other direction, determined to find a quiet spot to make up lists and make some calls, do everything possible before I could get my eager hands on my hundreds of issues of _Wedding Weekly._

***.***

I decided I liked Kurt's magazines. They were really glossy and girly with tons of flowers and cool ideas for the wedding. There were magazines completely on beautiful wedding dresses and lacy, colourful bridesmaid dresses. Some were on just flowers and different arrangements and little bunches that got clipped on the suits or dresses, or the fancy one for the bride to hold.

I was on the floor, lying on my tummy with my legs bent and kicking behind me until they almost touched the back of my head. I just finished another magazine and pointed to an orange and white flower thing with long, pointy petals.

"What about this one?"

Kurt leaned over and turned the magazine around to face him. He was sitting in the middle of his bed with papers in a circle around him. "Yeah." He started nodding. "That's nice. Lilies are always beautiful and roses, well, classically romantic as always." He made a note in a notebook and put the pen between his teeth as he looked it over.

"Right, I've got a flouriest; a family friend that's a priest; wedding favors; a catering company that can do rush for dinner and cake, and they have the dinner menu, specifics and cake design; a venue that's not booked; and a back-up band for New Directions. The speeches are written; the seating plan has been finalized; invites have been printed and Carole and Dad were out driving to deliver them; the formal shop has been booked this weekend for dresses and tuxes, both trying and buying; I've booked the honeymoon, decided to do Carole's hair and make-up myself, while the Glee girls can figure it out amongst yourselves. Is there anything else? Anything I've forgotten?"

I stopped paying attention halfway through. I just nodded. "Nothing. You've got it all."

Kurt scribbled out the last schedule of what was going to happen when, and ripped it off his notepad. He scooched off the bed and ran upstairs to Finn.

I looked at the notes, reading what we still had to have. There were a ton of phone numbers crossed off and different jobs checked. Ideas were scribbled out or circled a lot. Miss Finn's Mom and Mr. Burt were having a rushed wedding, next Friday, which meant Kurt had to figure everything out in five days.

This was going to be a miracle or a mess, but I wasn't going to tell Kurt that. I had to help him cook tomorrow night, and Finn couldn't help with the wedding because he was Finn. He was too boyish and not helpful enough.

Kurt came back, arguing with Finn.

"I don't get this," said Finn. "Three hundred live doves—indoors? Won't that get really messy?"

Kurt stopped at the bottom of the stairs to argue with him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, his hair flapping in his eyes and huffed, "That's why we feed them glitter,_ Finn!_"

I could just see Finn's dirty socks at the top of the stairs. "Oh," his socks said. "Well, look, I've been thinking about it and I really want to do something special for the wedding, and I wanted to take this opportunity to sort of remind everyone that I'm, you know, a leader."

Kurt waved a hand, like _whatever_. "I've figured all this out. After you walk your mom down the aisle and give her away to my dad—"

"Incredibly creepy," interrupted Finn.

Kurt stopped and tilted his head to the side and I knew his left eyebrow went up and his lips were pushed together and his whole face was saying _Oh, really? You wana hear what I've gotta say? _

"—and give your speech to the newlyweds… which I have written, although you are free to suggest overall themes… you and Carole will have a lovely mother-and-son dance in front of everyone." It sounded more like a threat than an offer.

"Kurt, that's a terrible idea. I'm the worst dancer," he said quietly, like it was a secret.

"Everyone knows that," I called from Kurt's bedroom.

Finn ducked down so he could see me. "Thanks, Brittany."

"Your welcome."

Kurt sighed. "Look, Finn, trust me on this. I've been planning weddings since I was two. My Power Rangers got married and divorced in so many combinations, they were like Fleetwood Mac."

"Is that like Old Mac Donald's little brother?" I asked.

"I guess if I could pull it off, it could make me look like a cool stud," said Finn slowly.

"Totally," said Kurt, relaxing and stepping off his stage.

"It's a plan." And Finn's socks disappeared.

I was flipping through another magazine. This one was with all white dresses and pretty young women.

Kurt sat down on his bed again and started to put all his notes together. "It's a plan," he repeated. He picked up the wedding magazines and started putting them back in their hiding box.

"With Carole's figure, that dress'll never work," said Kurt when I was staring at a very nice, shimmery dress that was really tight.

He went into the sitting room and gathered his magazines and loose paper and stuff. When he came back, he closed his door and jumped on his bed. I jumped on it, too, ready to start to hit the ceiling, but Kurt kissed me, just as gentle and nice as always.

After a few minutes, he lay down and pulled me onto his chest.

"You're worried about the wedding? That you can't pull it off?" I asked.

I felt him shrug. He was running his hand over my hip, the other one held with both of mine. I knew he was worried, even if he didn't want to say it; just like I knew he loved me, even if he wasn't ready to say it.

"Sometimes I wish I was a boy," I said quietly.

***.***

I looked down at her suddenly. What was I meant to say to _that?_ "Me, too"?

Then, I realised I really didn't want her to be, even if she could be. Even though I hadn't wanted to admit it before, part of Brittany—the definite person inside—was that she was a girl.

"Why?" was what I said instead.

"So you could be happier," she said simply. "So that we could be easier on you."

I shook my head. _What a couple_, I thought to myself. Me, ambitious, selfish, self-centered, arrogant me. And Brittany, beautiful, dim, incredibly selfless Brittany. "That's not the right reason to want to be a boy," I said.

"Well, I don't like periods either and I was told guys don't have them," she said matter-of-factly.

I held back a laugh. "That's not the right reason either. It's if you feel you were born a guy in a girl's body or... something like that, I imagine."

Brittany was quiet for a long, long while. "I know I kinda proved I turn you on"—I had never blushed so deeply red in all my life—"and in normal, day-to-day stuff, too. But I can see it sometimes. Like, when you look at me, really, _really_ look at me, you kinda look sad, like you wish I was something else."

"I am sad, sometimes," I said hesitantly, half-wishing Finn would burst in with other stupid worries about my flawless itinerary. "I know that nothing lasts forever, even though I like to imagine it sometimes. And I can just see that one day I'm not gonna be with you and that makes me sad."

"When you find another dolphin that you really like, I will give you up," said Brittany. I felt her lips on my hand, and I knew she truly meant it. "I mean, I'm just a fish."

"And that's what I'm scared of," I whispered in her hair. "That you'll break up with me because you think I love Blaine or some other gay that comes along."

She sat up so suddenly, I almost had a heart attack. "You mean you don't love Blaine?" she asked, eyeing me critically.

"I—no!" I started to sit up, too, but she pushed me back down with both hands. "I don't love Blaine. He's a friend, a gay friend." She kept staring at me like that, so I continued, "Yes, he's good-looking and nice and—my God, I just finished this with Finn. Something _could_ happen—"

Brittany nodded, a little moisture gathering behind her eyes. "If I wasn't here."

"Look, Britts, I would rather have you than Blaine because I—"

I was wrong. _This_ was the deepest I had ever blushed. God, why couldn't I be romantic? Couldn't this be said with candles and soft music, maybe a solo of some Elvis ballad (I had been imagining Mika's _I See You_), and not when we were fighting?

I looked at her and took the hand that was still pinning me to my own bed. "I love you. Not him. That's it. You. You've shown me a bravery that I didn't know existed and a gentleness and carefreeness that touches something in me. Here." I kept her hand on my heart.

Brittany's eyes grew to the size of Hollywood flashbulbs. "_Ohhhh_."

I immediately thought I had done wrong. "I shouldn't have dropped the L-word."

"Lesbians?" said Brittany waspishly, any shock vanishing faster than Copperfield himself.

"No, no." I chuckled. "Love."

She smiled at me, biting her lip anxiously. Slowly, her fingers curled around my hand and her tears remained unshed. Without warning, she squealed, and lay on top of me, hugging me around the neck, and whispered in my ear, "Love you, too."

She leaned back and kissed me full on the lips. I reached around her waist and held her close against me. A joy sang inside me louder and more passionately than any competition solo could ever give me, than anyone knowing, than the acceptance from my friends and family could ever bring.

I sighed deeply, finally content.

***.***

I had spent all night thinking about Kurt. How he looked when I scared him. How he looked when I kissed him. Horrified. Those snotty little eyes wide in terror. His perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect voice and perfect talented future meaning nothing when I looked at him.

I stayed up, staring at my fifth-grader spacey ceiling complete with glow in the dark stars and mobiles of paper Mache planets. As exhaustion began to take over me, my daydreams shifted into sleep dreams. As they did, his reactions became less scared, more stunned, then gradually, they turned into something that turned moths in my stomach and lightened my body.

He started kissing me back… holding me… touching me… _talking_ to me.

_There's nothing wrong with you… not a sin… perfectly normal… you are so hot right now… Oh, David… I accept you… I love you…_

I love you. My dream-self said it back to him.

The entire encounter was layered with those words and the smile he gave me when I said it, echoing in my mind and in the dreamscape that drifted into nothingness. The only thing in it was a bed that enveloped us in warmth of a fire and the closeness of a casket.

At some point, when we were finished, we just lay beside each other, somehow with our clothes back on. Kurt kept changing outfits with a blink, but the only thing that stayed the same was that smile and the words that were constantly on those lips.

I so wanted to hold him, but I couldn't, because then I couldn't see those eyes, that face. I kept staring at him, him at me, completely awake and totally in love. Without warning, Kurt reached out a slim hand and started to caress my hair and my face, whispering those mythical three words until the dreamscape faded to black and I woke up hours and hours later, wishing that there was a certain boy next to me.

Those first few moments, when dream and reality had become one, was the worst time of my day. And each and every day, I wanted to make him pay for making me feel like this, for making me not be able to look my family in the eye, and, worst of all, making my stupid dreams impossible as long as he was a traitor, a boyfriend to a girl. That day, I stole his stupid wedding people, like the tiny things couples stick on wedding cakes.

"I don't want you near me," he said with a disturbingly calm voice, a delicious flush spreading up his neck. The typical horror changed to something that broke my heart. There was no fear now. It was all hate.

I needed the fear back. His confidence would break me. I noticed he was holding this little porcelain figure. I snatched it, almost making him cry out. There was the fear. The trembling horror.

"Can I have this?" I asked casually. My face was stony and harsh. "Thanks," I added when Kurt started backing up from me with this look of blank terror on his face.

"Be careful, Hummel," I warned, inching closer until I could smell his sharp, spiced aftershave, close enough to kiss him. I poked him hard in the chest, in the triangle where his coat parted to reveal his shirt. I could feel his t-shirt give a little before Kurt was forced backwards into the lockers gradually. He grew pale, the previous flush changing suddenly.

I got out of there before I could let my poker face fall. I looked down at the porcelain figures. At least I had a souvenir.

***.***

I was shaking with fear. I couldn't believe I let Karofsky scare me this much. My trembling was part fear, part shame. The now-familiar vision change came: black tunnel vision that slowly grew… and grew. I was going to faint. Or cry. Oh, God. A breakdown was unavoidable. I needed… I didn't know what I needed. Someone. A minute where people weren't staring. Even a slushie would be appreciated to snap me to reality.

And Mr. Schuester was there.

"Kurt, are you okay?"

A hand on my shoulder. I could barely shake my head no.

Mr. Schuester guided me through the halls, saying something I didn't catch. The next thing I registered was being pushed into a comfy leather chair with Principal Sylvester in front of me.

"Did he physically hurt you?"

"No," I said. My vision was returning to normal, my heart, my palms weren't sweating, my hands weren't shaking, I wasn't numb. I started to feel embarrassed, even though I knew that this was a big deal.

"You said he's shoved you into the lockers before," said Mr. Schuester from beside me.

Sue shrugged. "Well, I can't expel a kid for shoving. He'll just say, 'I didn't mean to shove that kid, I tripped!' Excuse works like a charm. I use it all the time," she said dryly.

Slowly, the words made me realise something. They were looking for a reason to expel Karofsky. It made me feel better. Good intentions.

"He didn't shove me this time," I felt compelled to say. "He just…" I felt like a little kid. "… terrified me."

Sue sighed. "Lady," she said contemptuously. "I can't suspend a student because he scares you. High school is a dry run for the rest of your life. It's rough. People can be mean."

I was starkly reminded of when Blaine said that the staff at his old school were concerned about his bullying, but that they just took homophobic bullying as a part of a gay man's life. I couldn't belief this.

"That's your advice?" demanded Mr. Schue. He was outraged. "That's all you have to say?"

Sue went back to her desk. "William, I was bullied my entire life. I grew up with a handicapable sister. I know very well how cruel people can be. Was it difficult? Yes. Did it make me stronger? You bet it did." She looked at me with a pleading note in her eye and I knew that for all her faults, she was trying.

I covered my mouth with my hand to cover my trembling lips. They couldn't do anything. "It's the fear that's the worst. I never know when it's coming, I can't concentrate. I don't feel like I'm part of this school at all. I feel like I'm in a horror movie where this creature follows me around terrifying me, and there's nothing that I can do about it? I mean, you…" I licked my lips nervously. I couldn't out Karofsky. I just couldn't. "You don't know what's going on in this kid's head. You don't know what he's capable of."

"What does that mean?" said Mr. Schue gently.

"Nothing. Maybe I'm overreacting," I said too quickly.

Mr. Schue wanted to press for details, but Sue raised a hand. She didn't care. My physical well-being was her concern. His was if I was under too much stress, with Brittany and the wedding and Sectionals and now Karofsky.

"Lady, this kid lays a finger on you, you come straight to me, and I will expel him faster than a Thai take-out place can read back your delivery order. Okay?" she said determinedly. "But until that happens, and I'm genuinely sorry to say this, there is nothing legally I or the school board can do."

I believed her. We had an understanding. At least a slight, temporary one. On this issue only.

Mr. Schue shook his head in frustration. "Come on, Kurt. We're gonna be late for rehearsal." He guided me to the door again, but I shook his hand off and looked back at Sue. While we were on semi-good terms, I needed to say something.

"You know, when you call me lady—that's bullying. And it's really hurtful," I demanded. It sounded good in my head, strong and powerful, but I sounded on the brink of tears.

Principal Sue tapped a pen out on her desk. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought that was your name. As an apology, I'll allow you to choose from the following nicknames… Gelfling, Porcelain, and Tickle-Me-Doughface."

The Muppet, really? I looked nothing like Gelfling! And there was no way Sue was going to call me Tickle-Me-Doughface in public, like an embarrassing aunt. "I guess I'll go with Porcelain," I said.

"Damn. Totally wanted Tickle-Me-Doughface." She even smiled and I knew that with at least a part of her evil, evil bullying, it was just teasing with nothing meant by it.

***.***

"We're so early," I complained. Santana had my hand and was dragging me around the school. I didn't know what she was looking for. We passed empty classrooms, hallways and janitor's closets.

Now, we were going to the Glee rehearsal. A full half-clock early.

"That's the fun. I want to kiss and make up," said Santana, squeezing my hand and looking at me in that hot way she liked to. "No one'll be there." She moved her thumb over the bumpy bits on my hands. "Promise."

I followed her, not like I had much of a choice. I was kind of excited, though. We hadn't had those lady kisses for a long, long time. Almost every time we fought (which wasn't very often), we made up in my bed. I was glad that we were going to have some fun, even if it wasn't in my warm, comfy bed.

I heard Santana groan and let go of my hand. I tried to reach for it again, but she slapped my hand away. I slumped.

Santana put her hands on her hips and faced the choir room. On one end were Girl Asian and Quinn on little stools, with Rachel standing over them.

"Why didn't you tell us that we were having a Glee girls meeting?" asked Santana angrily.

I slumped a little more. Santana and I wouldn't be cool for a while.

Rachel smiled really fakely, giving me a strong desire to bite her Jewish Smurfette head off. "This is a meeting for Glee girls with boyfriends," she said like she was sorry, but really wasn't. "We're going to make them stop Karofsky from bullying Kurt."

That got my attention, and most people (including Kurt and my parents) say that's hard to do. "We want in on that, too," I said, but Santana looked at me, and I knew what she was thinking. _You never say anything; I do our talking, you look pretty._

"I'm dating Puckerman," said Santana.

Quinn shook her head. "You're getting naked with Puckerman."

"Besides, Puck can't mess with Karofsky," said Asian With Boobs. "He's on probation. If he gets in a fight with him, he'll be sent back to juvee."

Rachel started nodding like _I told you so._ "Yeah, so now if you'll excuse us…" She said it like, _Now that you've interrupted us, just apologise and leave, little child._

Why did she have to be so mean?

Santana almost growled. "You're so on my list, dwarf." And she left.

I sat on the piano. I knew Kurt was having issues, but I thought it was the wedding and all stress and normal, healthy stuff. Karofsky and bullying wasn't healthy. Karofsky was scared and when animals are scared, they do dumb, dangerous things.

"Look, if something bad happens to Kurt and we didn't do anything to stop it, we'll never be able to live with ourselves," I said.

Everyone looked at me and slowly they started nodding, even Rachel. That was probably the longest any of them had heard me talk. But this was important; I couldn't just sit by the side and let Kurt get hurt.

I loved him.

***.***

I had never felt so embarrassed. Why couldn't Sue just expel the cretin and be done with him? _This_ was the physical violence excuse they needed. Even Coach Bieste saw Sam and Karofsky brawling in the locker room. A "manimal" as Artie said.

I was sitting on the top row, shaded vaguely from the overhang above. I couldn't bear to lift my head and pay attention to the fight the boys had to go through. I massaged my temple, trying to fight back a headache that I had been on the verge of all week. Brittany rubbed my knee, trying to soothe me, and every now and then whispered the meaningless nonsense that everything was fine and that Karofsky wasn't going to hurt us anymore.

Puck stormed in, throwing his backpack at a lower chair. "You've got no idea how hard it was for me not to jump into that beatdown!" he said aggressively, his hands curled into fists at his side.

"And where were _you_, Finn?" asked Santana waspishly.

I could tell from the back of his head that Finn had turned crimson. "I was still out on the field, okay? I totally would have given him a beatdown if I had been there, though," he said unconvincingly.

Mercedes, sitting beside him, said gently, "The fact is, it shouldn't have gone down without you, Finn. You should have been leading the charge."

Finn began to slide down in shame and I forced myself to speak. When I did, my voice was higher and thinner than I was accustomed to and I didn't have the energy anymore to really change it.

"Lay off Finn, everyone. It isn't his problem. It's none of your problems, actually. But thank you for what you did, especially Sam." I ended in a whisper. Sam looked back at me with the beginnings of a black eye. Of all the people to throw himself like that… the one that knew who I was. I didn't know what that was supposed to mean.

I guess Karofsky was getting to me. The best façade I put on was for Britt and Blaine, the remainder of my energy into the wedding and homework and into maintaining regular life. I couldn't force myself to eat anymore, my stomach shrinking and tensing in anxiety; nightmares kept me up for hours, huddled in my bed with fright; and I was fast losing focus and interest in things that used to bring me joy. Singing was a good example.

Mr. Schue came in and almost dropped his Journey discography; the sullen mood was tangible. "What's going on? What happened to Sam?"

"He stood up to Karofsky," said Quinn proudly, dabbing the eye with an ice pack.

"All the guys did, but not Finn," said Tina, holding hands with Mike, just as proud of her man.

Mr. Schuester, through some miracle of infamy, said, "Is everyone okay? Do we all need to go talk to Principal Sylvester?"

Sam shook his head, quickly holding it from the sudden mind-spin. "Nah. I got in a few good licks, too, so we can just call it even. And maybe this will send a warning to Karofsky, telling him to back off Kurt."

Such a knight in shining armour.

"You okay, Kurt?" said Mr. Schue softly, like the rest of the class in front of me couldn't hear him. I nodded vigorously, determined not to make eye contact, as I took out an old CD player with Bruno Mars already in it. "All right, guys. Let's take our places. We've got a wedding to prepare for. Take the floor, Kurt."

I stood at the front with none of the usual zeal I normally had in the rare opportunities I had to stand before the glossy piano. The rest of the group were behind me, and followed my lead with the short spurts of dancing I kicked out, constantly hitting play and pause the instrumental to let them catch it.

I was so glad that they couldn't see my face because, honestly, with the black-eyed Sam, the wheelchair-bound Artie who couldn't feel his sprained ankles, and the shamed Finn, I couldn't have smiled even if Patti LuPone herself were standing there.

***.***

I sighed a happy sigh, back in my element, and with an excuse to replace the façade. Plus, I needed some fun. Brittany sat on a nearby piano as my dear, dear assistant, her legs dangling a foot and a half off the edge and popping a wad of Hubba Bubba into head-sized strawberry gum spheres.

In front of me: Finn and Dad, sitting on the viciously uncomfortable stools, and a ghetto blaster from the back alleys of 1980's Chicago with a waltz jammed in it.

"Thank you both for attending the Kurt Hummel Wedding Dance Seminar," I said with my quiet enthusiasm. "Dad, you're going to have to pull off the first dance with Carole and if Uncle Andy's fortieth birthday party was any indication, you're going to need some work," I said frankly.

"What are you talking about? My moves were great, okay? It was… the damn sangria," he muttered, knocking his shoulders back and "limbering up" as per my advice. I hadn't quite meant like that, but… whatever.

Finn looked impressed at the sangria announcement. His moves were even older than my retro ghetto blaster; it wasn't even vintage anymore. It was retro.

"We dance to the beat, not the words," I prattled on. I went forward and grabbed Dad's hand, dragging him to the middle of the room.

"Affected my coordination, I'm here, right?" said Dad weakly.

"Yes, yes, yes, here. Have you guys chosen a…" Dad raised his other hand, so both our interlocked hands were at head-level. Wow. For some reason I was reminded of the _YMCA_. "No," I said firmly, putting his hand on my waist and my other one on his shoulder, keeping an arm's length. "… a wedding song?"

"Uh, yeah. We're thinking 'Stairway' or some Buble," said Dad, trying to find my hip through my sweater to readjust his hand to. In the end, he surrendered. Thank god my hips weren't as defined as a girl's.

"Great. So it's basically one-two-three-four. Follow me, then. Gentleman leads on the left. Opposite of me. Opposite. Get ready?" I said, rapid-fire. I turned us around to Brittany, who had just snapped her gum really loudly. "Turn on track four."

Brittany hit play and began to search. Soon, a gentle waltz kicked in and I counted my dad and I down. He kept muttering "opposite".

"Opposite," I reminded. "One-two-three-four." And I _pulled_ him when I stepped backwards. He slowly got it, and soon we were revolving to the strings.

Brittany made little duh-duh sounds to the beat, keeping time for Dad. He looked down at our feet, mildly stunned. "Hey," he laughed. "I'm dancing. Look at that! My feet are moving and there's music."

Finn laughed a little from his chair.

I called Brittany over and told my dad to practise with her, a girl whose waist was easier to find than mine. I didn't say the last bit, but Dad took the lead and started twirling with Brittany, adding in a few unapproved under-the-arm spins and dips that made her giggle.

"Come on, Finn," said Dad. "No chickenin' out. I did you, you gotta do it, too."

Finn wasn't laughing anymore. He just realised he had to dance with a dude. To the quarterback who cared so much about his reputation, I should hardly count as a dude, I thought frostily.

I nodded sharply to the space in front of me.

Finn stood up awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as an excuse to avoid my eyes. I was still in position, my right hand extended for his left, my left hand where his taller-than-me shoulder would be.

This was actually quite the dream for the sophomore me, waltzing with Finn Hudson, but I was over it. However, girlfriend or not, I liked guys and holding hands would be fun, too. But not if he was going to be such a wimp about it.

I waved my hands at him. "Position," I ordered. I looked him in the eye; a bad move. He glanced away and saw the open door.

"Can we shut the door?" he said desperately, pointing at the door. "I'm not really comfortable with people watching."

I pretended to not understand. I knew he wasn't homophobic, but he complied with the basic worldview of gays, which pissed me off sometimes. But Brittany saved me here.

"You danced in front of a thousand people at Regionals," she said, laughing as my dad spun her like a top.

Finn bit his lip then took my hand in more of a handshake position than a relaxed, dancing pose. I tilted our wrists to force him into the pose and it turned into a mid-air arm wrestle. I took his other hand and stuck it on my waist, putting my hand on his shoulder.

Finn's eyes, which were glued on the door, became round and glassy and he all but threw away my hand. I followed his sight to see Karofsky make a limp hand that was probably meant to represent the lack of masculinity that Finn was portraying. I knew well enough the rituals of rigorous manliness that the jocks had to keep up and, frankly, was furious, than very quickly scared as Karofsky nodded at me, making a weird smirk that froze my blood.

Finn saw that. The way my smile fell and was replaced by a very unconvincing one, the way I tensed up before forcing myself to relax, and the way I moved to shut the door to protect myself from bodily harm and Finn was a few days of teasing.

"What the hell was that?" asked Dad, letting go of Brittany and storming to me.

I shook my head and tried to take Finn's hand again. "It's nothing, Dad. That was called nothing," I said with a touch of bitterness, hoping he would get it was normal and continue without looking too deep into this particular bully.

"That guy was making fun of you. What the hell's his name?"

Brittany turned off the music. The sudden silence seemed to conceal even more. I opened my mouth but couldn't force the words, trying to control my body before it betrayed me while comprehending my father and Finn's demands.

"Tell him, Kurt," murmured Finn.

"Tell me what?" demanded Dad.

"Tell him or I will," threatened Finn.

"His name's Dave Karofsky," I admitted, abandoning the pretence of the impossible task of teaching Finn to waltz and walking towards the piano, closer to Britt, who had that look of hopeless concern for me again.

"He's been…" How _would_ you describe our encounters? "… harassing me for a few weeks now." I left out the bit about feeling depressed and how I could feel myself slipping dangerously close to the place that would make me another statistic of gay teens who commit suicide because of bullying.

"Harassing you how?" said Dad critically.

"Just…" I shook my head. "Just shoving me, giving me a hard time."

Dad looked back, to where Karofsky was passing the choir room's second door as he turned the second corner. Karofsky nodded to me again, smirking that strange smirk and widening his eyes like _Oh, you know._

"There's more," said Dad, edging closer to me.

Brittany grabbed my hand reflexively.

"There's something else you're not telling me," said Dad, the first "else" obviously being the blond clinging to me for my own sanity.

I said it all in a rush. "He threatened to kill me."

"You should've told me," said Brittany, stunned.

"What?" said Finn disbelievingly. "You've gotta be kidding me."

Dad had no issue believing it, instantly bolting through the far door after Karofsky.

I sighed, ready to explain, but then Finn realised his stepfather-to-be was gone. "Burt!" he called, sprinting after him.

Brittany and I followed, helpless to control the events, despite the fact that I had caused them. Dad was always protective about my sexuality, shouting at the principal, demanding fair treatment, but at the threat of death I didn't know what he would be capable of.

I found Dad pushing Karofsky hard into the locker, same as he had done with me so many times. Finn was trying to pull Dad off, but it wasn't working.

"What the hell?" barked Karofsky.

Dad pinned his head with his arm, forcing the bully to meet his eyes. Rage and hatred boiled off him in waves. "You like pickin' on people?" snarled Dad.

"What?"

"Why doncha try _me_!" Dad pressed harder into Karofsky's neck and a genuine look of fear came over him, a very familiar feeling to me, unheard of to him. I was tempted to leave him.

Karofsky struggled, fighting back and failing miserably.

Brittany and I helped Finn pull my dad off Karofsky. It took the combined strength of the three of us and all the pleading we could muster to finally pry Dad off Karofsky. As soon as he was freed, Karofsky bolted in the opposite direction.

Dad rounded on Finn, breathing hard. "What the hell have you been while all this is going on, huh?"

Finn opened his mouth, closing it in shame.

I put an arm on Dad's shoulder and called his name a few times. This was much worse than the Glee Club shaming him because he didn't take part in a beatdown he knew was going to happen. This was his stepfather telling him he wasn't man enough to take care of his family.

"You, me—we're talking to that batshit woman with the tracksuits," said Dad fiercely.

***.***

We couldn't see Principal Sylvester right away; calls had to be made, my initial testimony had to be given on the insistence of Sue, taped and written, and we were making an appointment with Karofsky and his dad to meet me and Dad.

That night, Dad was stabbing rather viciously at his spaghetti squash Bolognese with meatballs. I eyed him across the table. Finn was picking at his food moodily, head resting on his arm in a pathetic sight. A stony silence hovered over the three of us.

And I was the cause of all this.

I knew it was stupid, the same way my sexuality was my fault. Karofsky was something beyond my control, but while he terrified me, gave me horrible nightmares and caused me to fear for my reputation (something I had never done before), I pitied him wholeheartedly. What it must be like to be gay and not able to tell a soul, even yourself. At least I had always accepted myself. I might have been confused, but always accepting.

He needed help, support, not punishment. But for the life of me, I couldn't imagine how to get him out of this.

***.***

Dad and I walked down to Principle Sylvester's office; Dad was straight-backed and proud, convinced that I had done nothing wrong, while I knew that if he understood the reason Kurt had called this meeting, he would _hate_ me.

We had arrived first, fifteen minutes early—a Karofsky household policy. Dad and Sylvester shook hands and we sat against one wall, waiting, while I concentrated on pushing down my anxiety and lunch, wishing I had brought my bookbag to keep my hands busy. They were constantly playing with the seams of my pants, the lint in my pocket, and Dad gave me a look that I understood. Don't look weak. Another Karofsky household policy.

Frankly, I thought Dad could talk Sylvester out of punishing me (he was, after all, the best lawyer in Lima), but I didn't want that. I _wanted_ a few weeks suspension. If Kurt didn't think I was adequately punished, I was almost positive that he would out me—Brittany or no Brittany.

At last, Kurt and Mr. Hummel came in. Mr. Hummel looked like he came from the shop, complete with baseball cap and blue-collar, name-stitched shirt. Kurt looked just as flamboyant and un-straight as always: pressed beige slacks, a white cardigan, and a lime green buttoned shirt that was strangling him.

Dad gave a healthy smile, meeting both in the eye when he shook hands, both handshakes brief and unaccepted on the Hummel side. The Hummels were everything Dad looked down on: gay, loud and blue-collar.

"So, it seems to situation has reached a boiling point," said Sylvester, and in those few words I knew I had no chance getting out of here unless it was by expulsion. There was no mercy in those eyes.

"You're damned right it has," said Mr. Hummel angrily.

"Nothing happened," I said, remembering my time practising in front of the mirror, rehearing my lines so they sounded natural, off-hand.

Mr. Hummel directly at me. I nearly withered under that gaze. "I'll tell you what happened." Those hard eyes went to my Dad, and I lowered my eyes to the floor, unable to meet Kurt's. "Mr. Karofsky—"

"My name's Paul," corrected Dad with faint distaste.

"Paul, your kid threatened the life of my son," said Mr. Hummel.

Dad's eyes started to flick, a sure sign he was losing confidence in his defence.

Sylvester said in a shockingly soft voice, "Porcelain? Is that true?"

As soon as I realised it was Kurt, I jumped in. "That's not true. I didn't say anything." But Sylvester was completely disinterested in what I had to say.

I didn't look but I heard the high voice, even thinner than normal. "That's what he said. He said he would kill me if I told anyone."

I was determined not to go down a coward, a wimp, so with great effort, I raised my head and looked Kurt straight in the eye and hoped it didn't look like I was begging him to shut his singing mouth.

"If you told anyone what?" said Sylvester in that soft voice.

"Just…"

I couldn't _believe_ that he would call my problem a "just". This wasn't "just" anything. It was a problem that I couldn't overcome, something about me that would never change, that would completely fuck over my life.

Kurt started to shake his head, not a single hair moving. "…that he was picking on me," he finished.

I let out a breath of relief and looked at the principal. "He's making all this stuff up," I said, my defence gathering speed.

"Oh, is that right?" said Mr. Hummel scathingly.

Dad raised a hand. "Hold on a sec. You have been acting differently lately, David. You used to get A's and B's. You're talking back, you're acting out, and now we're sitting here. So let me ask you: Why would Kurt make that up?"

I couldn't believe this.

Dad was using his "I'm so disappointed in you, son" voice, his Voice of God voice, the voice that was to be obeyed and that shamed me to my room for days on end.

I had known he was a lawyer; I had just assumed he was a lawyer _for me._ He looked at the evidence and drew a reasonable conclusion. My guilt was reasonable, despite his prejudices, and there was some heaviness in Kurt's eyes, in the draw of his face that said he wasn't lying.

I gathered myself quickly. "Maybe he likes me."

What I meant to Dad was: He's fuckin' gay, now so something about this homo before he ruins my life!

"I think we're wasting our time here," said Mr. Hummel condescendingly. "It's your job to protect people."

"Couldn't agree more," said Sylvester flatly. "After hearing both sides of the story, you are hereby expelled. I will not have one student threatening the life of another. If you don't think this is fair, well, you can appeal to the school board. You'll leave campus immediately."

I stared, uncomprehending. I didn't get it. I felt Dad lead me out, the disappointment seeping out of him, and push me into the car. He drove us home. He made dinner. He said Grace. We ate. We went to bed.

And I realised there were more ways than one to fuck up someone's life.

***.***

Looking at my reflection, there should be nothing wrong. Nothing to make me uncomfortable except for the possibility of failure of my bullet train of a wedding. A black suit and even tie that fell straight down my chest, a tiny orange corsage on the lapel.

My life was changing so drastically. I used to be gay, an utter romantic, and proud to scream to the God who hated me what I was. And I had traded it all for bisexuality, a girlfriend who liked sex (and sex liked her), and another closet that Britts was trying to pick with a hairpin. And love. That made up the difference.

I pulled on the strings of my tie, making it a tad longer. I sat on a chair and tied the spit-shined shoes that pinched my feet. A pitter-patter of little feet and I was throttled from behind with a swinging hug. I smiled on instinct.

"Hey," she said. She twirled to the bed, hiking her dress up and crossing her legs. She dangled her high heels from her fingertips, a bunch of orange flowers in her hand and one stuck on her hairband with hot glue.

"Hello, darling." I sat beside her and fixed some of the looser stems in her bouquet.

"Can we just pick a name for me?" she said, putting a hand between my shoulders.

Even through the suit, a shiver went up my spine.

"I mean, you call me 'sweetheart', 'darling', 'boo', 'love' and all kinds of other things. Sometimes it's hard to tell it's me."

I let out a laugh and kissed her on the forehead, careful not to mess her eye-make-up, lipstick or blush—honestly, that was the only place I could kiss. "There's no one else I'd call a name like that. Cross my heart."

She took my hand, her scarlet nails sharp, and—without any regard to her gorgeous make-up job—kissed me on the lips. "I love you." She said it a certain way, with such a joy, almost giddy, really, and it took my breath away.

We brushed noses, foreheads together and lips grazing. "I love you, too. God, I do." I think I sounded desperate.

We stayed like that for a few heartbeats, before I heard the sound check from downstairs.

I stood up grudgingly and looked back at myself in the mirror, self-consciously flattening my hair again. I saw my lips were significantly pinker than usual, but Brittany's lips weren't smudged, the colour gradient only changing.

I took my eyes from her face and looked down at the elegant, ruby red dress Mercedes (as my fashionista extravagant) had picked as bridesmaids. It fit to the waist, folding out as a bell curve—a classic tea cut with a small teardrop under the hollow of her throat. She wiggled into the heels and grinned.

"Let's go get married," she said, linking arms with me.

My heart skipped a few beats. "You look beautiful," I whispered, a sudden blast of strawberries when she turned to face me.

We unhooked arms and walked downstairs, waiting our turn for the solo lines. The dancy tune of _Marry You_ started up and Finchel, Sinn, then Pucktana and Artcedes danced down the aisle, singing all the way; Artcedes having golden streams for Artie to wave to contrast the colour theme, and offset the lack of dancing ability.

When it came time for… Britturt… Kurttany… me and Britts, we left Asian Fusion backstage by themselves, almost bouncing with anticipation. I was hardly two left feet, but next to Britt, I thought I looked like a fat, wobbling, baby penguin.

_"Don't say no, no, no, no-no,_

_Just say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah,_

_And we'll go, go, go, go-go."_

I spun her around once, twice, then clasped hands and darted down the aisle full-speed.

_"If you're ready like I'm ready," _I sang in a higher key.

We bee-bopped at the sides of the officiator, Jeb, singing the chorus lines as Asian Fusion showed off Mike's dancing and Tina's compliance to be thrown about like a rag doll. We all joined together at the back for the final chorus, mimicking the viral video of that couple who danced down the aisle.

_"Is it the look in your eyes?_

_Or is it this dancing juice?_

_Who cares, baby?_

_I think I wanna marry you."_

Back at the front, this time paired with Finn doing the quirky moves as the duo of best men. We got back to Jeb again and we sang the chorus again and again until Dad and Carole made it, doing their own mash-up of the greatest dance moves of the seventies and eighties.

We were all looking excited and bouncing, clapping and singing—it was an act we had practised for a long time, since few people could maintain that level of happiness forever.

When I saw Dad's face when Carole started down the aisle, I knew that, even though I had only introduced them to get with Finn, she made him very happy and he was doing the right thing. I had had hypocritical doubts, but now, I could just be happy for my dad. He went down to meet her, giving a premature kiss and completing the journey traditionally.

Rachel got Carole's bouquet to hold.

Jeb smiled, looking directly at me. "Please be seated. We usually start with a prayer. But a certain young wedding planner, who shall remain nameless, was afraid that some in attendance might fall asleep."

I felt Brittany, who was crowded close with the lack of stage space, nudge me consistently. Now that we weren't singing, her eyes were fluttering closed, her head bobbing absently. I poked her with a fingernail, startling her awake. I rolled my eyes, but had to muffle laughter as she looked around, confused. Finn chuckled, too, and we met eyes for a minute, looking away quickly, but it wasn't like last year when he was frightened I was staring at him. He was ashamed.

"So instead, I'm going to let Burt and Carole tell you in their own words why they've invited you here today," finished Jeb, pointing to Dad.

Dad looked around awkwardly, even though I knew he had rehearsed it endlessly in front of a mirror. "I'm not really known for having a way with words. Uh… you know when you're a kid, adults will tell you a lot of things. But one thing they neglect to mention is how sad life can be. I lost somebody I loved very much. But Kurt… he lost his mom."

I felt a small lump in my throat, and knew my eyes were turning red, like they do when I feel like I'm about to cry. Mom wasn't someone I wanted talked about. Not in public. The pain in Dad's voice was something I hadn't heard in a long time, though, and that hurt me even more than my wounded pride and childhood.

"And that killed me. Well, we got by, but looking back? I-I want to apologize to you, Kurt. What we were living just… wasn't living." Dad turned to face me.

I nodded in acceptance. I had often wished for a mom, a woman who might have understood and taken part in me and my interests out of genuine enjoyment, rather than love. I felt Brittany touch my hand gently, and saw her mouth _Sorry._

"You know that saying, that when God closes a door, He opens a window? Well, sometimes out of nowhere, He'll do you one better, and He'll kick a whole wall down. He grabbed me by the shoulders, and He pointed me towards this woman right here. And He said, 'There she is. Go get her.' You're everything, Carole. Words can't describe you. You're everything. And I will love you till the day I die." He took her hands and his voice cracked with emotion.

It was a wonderful speech: a little awkward, full of love and straight from the heart. Better than I had expected. I thought it would have been too stifled with too much trying.

Brittany held my hand, now, looking on with a small smile.

Carole's turn. She looked at her son one last time.

"I'm lucky. Most women, when they get married, they get one man. I get two. One of you saved me from my wardrobe, the other one just saved me." She looked past Dad to me. "Kurt, you are an amazing person. I'm not only getting a son, I'm getting a friend." Her eyes traveled back to her son and her voice softened. "Finn… I know you were resistant at first, but I am so proud of you. I've watched you grow into a man. But I think I'm most proud that you've become a brother to Kurt. We are four people. Becoming a family." She took hands with Finn and Dad took my hand; I slipped him the ring he had entrusted me with. No one saw the stunned look on Finn's face at the term "brother".

A hot trickle ran from my eye, traced down my nose and dropped off. I knew my eyes were cherry red now, making me look even more like a porcelain doll, but I didn't care.

They both giggled and made "oooh" noises like they couldn't believe it was happening.

Jeb nodded. "Burt, do you take Carole—?"

"You bet I do!" Dad interrupted, eliciting a laugh from the audience and a watery gasp from the sappier viewers, such as myself and Rachel.

He placed the gold ring on her finger.

Jeb lost his focus for a minute. "And, do you, Carole, take this man—?"

"Oh, yes, I do. Yes, yes."

More laughter and sappier gasps as the ring was placed.

Jeb just stood back. "Powers invested in me… yeah, yeah, yeah… I now pronounce you husband and wife."

They shared a sweet kiss and that was my cue to boot it. I ducked out the back to organise the band and the reception room, check on the kitchen, the bar and Mr. Schuester who was applauding from the middle aisle. He was ready for it, so, the party filtered into the transformed recreation room.

Red light fluttered down from wax papered spotlights, hitting odd shadows, making the stark difference of the white dancefloor even greater. People gradually found their seats at the burgundy tables, and dinner was served. Finn and I had seats beside our parent… _s_—parents. It was parent_s_ now.

Chatter and laughter rose and fell in waves, one corner drawing the gift of the Gods of Loudness before rotating to the next. When the last plates were cleared, it was time for Carole and Dad to do their first dance.

_Sway._ Originally by some Spanish fellows, covered by Dean Martin and once again by Michael Buble.

And Mr. Schue knocked it out of the park, providing a steady rhythm and smooth, smooth voice and some Warbler-worthy delivery moves. Dad and Carole didn't do bad, either, giving their first dance some of their own flair, sacrificing technique for enjoyment. It was _their _wedding, after all.

Brittany leaned over from her table to me. "Good choice," she said, giving an okay sign with her hand. I looked back at her and the Glee Club was dancing in their seats.

The song ended when Dad dipped Carole. There was a touchy moment when he stumbled on her train, but they executed the move without injury.

Applause exploded around me and I felt pride well in my heart, both for my Dad and Carole and my planning.

Finn leaned over the empty chairs. "Great job, man," he whispered, clapping.

"And now, I'd like to introduce one of the best men: Finn Hudson," said Mr. Schuester.

Finn's mouth fell open, his face wiped blank momentarily. He stood up and took the mic from Mr. Schue, a class of champagne from a server, standing awkwardly in the stoplight.

Dad and Carole sat down at the high table.

"Was it alright?" asked Dad, winking, but with a little concern in his voice.

I patted his shoulder. "You did good. It was great."

Finn looked around at the guests, who all had their hands on his drinks, ready to toast. "Hi. Uh, thank you. Best man. Right. Uh…" he stammered out. He coughed and gathered his thoughts. I frowned. We had gone through his speech that night before until he could recite it like a champion actor. He _couldn't_ get stage fright, not now.

Then Finn started the speech correctly. "Well, I want to propose a toast to my mom who is so awesome. I mean, somehow even without one in the house, you taught me what it means to be a man." He raised his glass a little higher, that dopey smile taking hold.

He let out a breath, his eyes sliding from his mom to me. "In Glee Club, whenever two of us got together, we got a nickname. Rachel and I are Finnchel. Rachel and Puck were Puckleberry."

My smile froze. This was _not_ his speech; was he just throwing stuff as it came to him? Oh. My. God.

But he didn't stop. "And today, a new union was formed. Furt." Heat rose in my cheeks; I had several notebooks with _Furt, Finn Hummel_ and _Kurt Hudson_ written stylistically. No one needed to know that.

Finn smiled softly. "You and me, man. We're brothers from another mother. And quite frankly, no one else has shown me as much as you about what it means to be a man. And over the past few weeks some stuff's gone down. And I haven't manned up like I should've. From now on, no matter what it costs me, I got your back. Even if it means getting a slushie in the face every now and then."

We all laughed at that, having all been slushied repeatedly. I nodded, even with the pretty words, I wasn't sure he would (or his pride would allow him to) follow through. I could always hope.

Finn gestured at the room at large. "You put this entire wedding together by yourself, Kurt. So as a thank you, I had the Glee Club put together a little number in your honour." He came to the table and set the mic down; the boys started to form two lines behind him. "You're going to dance it with me, dude."

This was fine and all, but _dancing_ with _me_ at a _wedding_?

I shook my head fast, mouthing _no, no, no_. Finn made a cat eyes at me and led me to the dance floor, smirking. The opening bars of _Just the Way You Are_ started pumping through the sound system. This was a romantic song, like a proper romantic ballad, and—

_"Oh! Her eyes, her eyes…"_

My smile at the sweetness of this started to slip; I was still a she. Pronouns were simple to change. The dancing was nice, Finn's voice was as good as it had ever gotten, and it was all very sweet.

All of a sudden, the girls sprung up and joined the boys, black mixing with maroon. Despite being a she, the chorus was lovely and it had to take balls for Finn to sing this to a guy, no matter who was watching—especially since I had once wanted to sing _I Honestly Love You_ to Finn.

Then, Finn extended a hand towards me, offering me a dance. I stood at the side with the girls, while Finn finished the chorus. Mercedes and Rachel were holding my arms, Rachel looking dreamily at Finn. She started forward, making to dance with him, then pushing me to Finn with a laugh I heard over the song.

Finn took my hand, and I put my other one on his shoulder. Pressure on my waist; I was hardly going to correct him and say that his hand was way too high. That was okay, though. We revolved through the bridge, ending in a massive bear hug. And when we went to pick up our parents, I caught Mr. Schuester's proud, tearful eye.

I danced a steady waltz with my Dad, Finn awkwardly "jammin'" with him mom. The rest of the Glee Club danced with each other; I saw Brittany spinning in a red and blond blur with Santana, like two kids at a playground. Dad broke step with me and shook Finn's hand, taking his new wife for their second dance.

I swore I heard the shop's grease monkeys whooping, swaying like a group of drunken sailors.

Finn danced with Rachel, singing over her tiny head to me. I was swinging with Mercedes, who had apparently shrunk since our last hug.

All in all, I think the wedding was not half-bad.

***.***

I had been invited to the now-Hudson-Hummels' for dinner. Finn and Burt and me talked college football, and I think Finn preferred me as a dinner guest over Brittany. I think he thought Kurt inviting a gay guy for dinner was more normal.

They had gotten married last week and there were suitcases scrambled around the house, half-opened and clearly in the midst of packing for quite the trip. Honeymoon, as Kurt had explained.

Finn, Kurt and I were in the kitchen when I happened. Kurt was ordering us around, chopping vegetables instead of our fingers and mixing stuff. I'm hardly into cooking and Finn and I had a running competition who could get Kurt to say their name the most. Whenever we messed up, he always glided over, practically screeching, "Fi-inn!" or "Bl-laine!", stretching our names into two syllables, or calling us by our full names.

Kurt had just finished his banshee impression and I was telling Finn about my fencing trophies—he thought I was a shoe in for playing Zorro—when the phone rang. Kurt wiped his hands on the checkered apron that made him look like a Real Housewife of the Praries (not that Finn and I were sniggering about it, not at all), and went into the hall to answer it.

His breathless voice drifted into the kitchen, and we could see his shadow: hands on hips.

Finn laughed, raising the knife and pointing it at the door. "Someone probably told him he was going straight to Broadway."

"Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars," I added.

Finn snorted, his shoulders shaking with laughter. We had taken on the roles of two troublemaking preschoolers in an eighteen hundreds schoolhouse. Kurt being the schoolmistress, obviously.

But all that joking evaporated when Kurt came back. He undid his apron and threw it on the ground and made a high-pitched sound of desperation that I had never heard, or ever wanted to hear again. His blue eyes wide and rimmed with red, his hands shaking hopelessly—his whole _body_ shivering with inexplicable terror.

I jumped up and took him by the elbow, pushing him into my chair and handing him a box of Kleenex before the Hoover Dam gave out. He clung to my shirt, hands bunching in the fabric, and buried his face in my chest.

Finn looked from Kurt to me, before mouthing _What the hell just happened?_

Finn and me both stared awkwardly at Kurt for a good five minutes, letting him sob into my shirt. I tried to comfort him, you know, holding him close and saying that everything's fine. I wanted to go on my knees, so he could cry into my shoulder, but I didn't think moving would be such a good idea.

His sobs slowly became other sounds, drifting into speech, and the only word I could identify was "Karofsky."

"What was that?" asked Finn.

I relayed the information.

Kurt laid his head to the side, collecting himself without letting Finn see. Shuddering breath. Then another. And he turned to face us and said in a shockingly calm voice, "The school board has overturned Karofsky's expulsion, he'll be back on Monday."

Finn made a sudden move and I felt Kurt jump. Finn drove his knife, point down, into the cutting board, splitting a piece of celery on the way. "This is shit!"

Kurt reached over and yanked the knife out, inspecting the tip. "You can't do that, you might bend—"

Finn sent his chair flying backwards into the cupboard. "Don't say that! Don't you dare give up! Burt's gotta be able to do _something!_"

He ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs, calling Burt's name.

I knelt down on the floor, allowing Kurt to look at me. "How're you doin'?"

Kurt nodded unsurely. "I just can't believe it. I thought we had beat him."

"You know what could make your whole life a lot easier?" I felt horrible, horrible, _horrible_ for even thinking it, let along suggesting it to the hopeless-looking boy in front of me.

Kurt lifted his head. "Hmm?"

"If you take away the shifts of power."

"Out each other?" Kurt's eyebrows shot skywards. "I can't do that to him, Blaine."

I instantly reassured him. "No, oh, God no! Never! Just… threaten him with it. Come out yourself. Brittany would love a little song and dance about love."

Kurt was still shaking his head, horrified at me. Shame rushed in me. "The worst he ever did was threaten me. I'd be no better than him if I tried this."

I bobbed my head slowly. "Yeah. I know. I just had to ask, you know? It's an option. A cruel one, but still one."

"I'll come out, I'll appeal to Sylvester, but I won't threaten him with it," said Kurt determinedly.

"I don't want to pressure you into coming out," I said hurriedly. "It's your choice. Besides, Brittany must be asking you about that from time to time."

Kurt smiled softly. "Actually, no, she doesn't."

I didn't say that even him coming out, taking away Karofsky's major power shift, could be considered a threat. Kurt deserved to be happy and safe, and being public with Brittany could guarantee that. I was sure Brittany would love hanging around Kurt, going toe-to-toe with 200lb linebackers armed with fists and slushies.

"THEY DID WHAT?"

The roar shook the very house to its foundations and off-white, chrome basement.

"I guess Finn told Dad," said Kurt, standing and trying to make himself presentable. He used a knife as a mirror, trying to see his hair.

"HOW DARE THEY?"

This shriek could've been breaking glass at _my_ house.

"And Carole," I added, smiling.

Kurt threw down the knife in frustration. "How's my hair?"

I fixed a particular warble, nudging it to the left, and told him that no matter how straight his hair was, how he smiled or adjusted his voice, how he dried his eyes, he would have to pick up his knife and fork for dinner.

And then everyone would see how badly his hands were shaking.

***.***

I don't know what had happened to Kurt, but when he came out of Principal Sue's office, he was all slumped again and he was like a ghost, not really seeing anything, just drifting on, and really, really pale.

"Karofsky's coming back on Monday," said Kurt flatly, like it was no biggie.

I remembered how unhappy he was with Karofsky, and hugged him tight because that's what you do with guys who look like they might cry: give them somewhere to cry. I didn't care we were the hall and I don't think he did either, but he didn't cry.

He turned from my hug and we walked to his locker together, standing close, and I kept an eye out for slushies and big, nasty bullies. His parents were somewhere behind us, talking quietly.

Kurt was undoing his lock, spinning it really fast, when I pushed him away, knocking both of us to the floor. There was a loud _sla-crunch_ of slushie hitting locker and then the thick _drip-drip-drip_ of it falling near our feet.

We got up, dusted each other off, and Kurt whipped his locker door around, knocking off the last drips of blue sludge. There were a few specks on me, but nothing else on Kurt.

His parents were standing, stunned.

Kurt didn't even have the zing he normally had to spray his hair and comb it back into place. He just threw his stuff in and took his homework.

"Kurt," said Mr. Burt. "There's something we want to talk to you about." He had his arm around Miss Carole.

Kurt smiled; it looked really painful. "What's that? House rules for when you're gone on your honeymoon?"

"Actually…" Miss Carole started. "It's something kinda like that."

"We talked to Dalton Academy," said Mr. Burt. "The tuition's steep, but it's doable."

Kurt's eyes got really round. "Oh?" he said shortly.

"Well? Would you like to go to Dalton?"

I bit my tongue until I tasted blood to stop the words that wanted to run from my mouth.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>Complaints? Compliments? Review and I'll write faster. ;)<strong>

**I'd really like to know what you want. Should Kurt go to Dalton or not? When should the Glee Club know?  
><strong>


	9. I Am What I Am, I Kissed a Girl

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Not ever. In mine, bisexuality is considered a real sexual orientation.

**This is my adaption of the episode s02e08: Special Education. I have to say, though, that not one hell of a lot goes on in this episode that makes for good material. D: However, that's why this is Kurttany.  
><strong>

**From here on in, I'm going to be making a list of the songs and their YouTube videos for any who want to listen and read. ;) ENJOY!  
><strong>

_There's a Fine, Fine Line - .com/watch?v=k6nXj48FdL8  
>Don't Cry For Me, Argentina - .comwatch?v=VX6mH8ZT19o_  
><em>I Wanna Hold Your Hand - .comwatch?v=NpdBnASwuvE_  
><em>I Am What I Am - .comwatch?v=mGrQ8e2mFck_  
><em>I Kissed a Girl - .comwatch?v=UW8YOeDb8Ik (more or less, really)  
><em>

* * *

><p>I tightened my new striped tie and flattened my collar, watching my reflection carefully for any wavering of my conviction. I had done the right thing. I <em>had<em>.

Maybe I hadn't.

I shrugged into my pressed jacket and pulled it tighter, checking my appearance for minute flaws. I rolled what Britt liked to call a "sticky comb" down my side, collecting the last fragments of lint from the new garments and let out a small breath of relief.

I _had_ done the right thing.

I picked up my bag, ruffling through for my past homework, and met my Dad in the kitchen, brushing butter onto extra crispy toast. Finn sat at the table, reading the cereal box, utterly captivated with the nutritional facts of my Special K.

"Dude," said Finn as morning greeting.

Dad nodded his head, crunching into his blackened toast.

I sat down gingerly, as though I expected a bomb to go off, and fixed myself a coffee.

"Could I have a word with you?" said Dad, pulling me into the living room and out of the ear of Finn.

"Where's Carole?" I asked, collapsing onto the familiar couch.

"Having a bit of a lie in," said Dad quickly. "Look, Kurt. I'm all for whatever makes you happy—"

"Is this about Britt?" I asked, crossing my legs.

"Yeah," said Dad gently, sitting next to me. "It is. I'm worried about how she's affecting your normal life. I'm sure your happy with her, but, you don't do all the little things you used to do."

"Such as?" I frowned, wondering what habits of mine he was using to bookmark my sanity.

"You don't ask me for money to go shopping with your friends anymore."

I pointed at my new outfit.

"Last night was the first time in two weeks, Kurt," he said. He had a point; I usually asked for money once every couple of days, saving for a spree or a trip to buy my own tailoring supplies. "You don't hog the remote and demand that we watch _Project Runway_; you're always in your room. You don't come talk to me, dissecting your day over gourmet hot chocolate."

I nodded to his heart.

"Yeah—but." He waved it away, like everything else was just nothing. "You don't sing, Kurt."

I lowered my head, knowing it was true. This carried weight.

"Showtunes in the shower, radio things when you're cooking dinner—you don't even hum anymore, that little tuneless thing that isn't really a song."

I shrugged, trying to throw this off. "I've got a lot on my plate, right now."

"That's why I'm worried." For once, Dad really sounded it, and he wasn't typically a man of words or emotions. "Look, I know it ain't her fault, but I'm a little worried that you're getting too stressed out."

"I won't be for long," I promised. "I'm going to be coming out right after Sectionals." Before Dad could protest and insist that wasn't what he meant, I continued. "That's why I'm stressed. What people will think of me, how they will treat me—the sooner I embrace the consequences of my actions, the sooner I'll return to normal."

I smiled and patted Dad on the back. Time to go to school.

***.***

Kurt looked way happier today. For a minute I really thought he was going to Gay Hogwarts. But there he was, sitting in a red plastic chair in the Glee room. I sat down beside him, pulling at his black jacket—there were tons of little sparkles in it. They had to be his unicorn dust.

"New clothes?"

He gave me a funny look—not funny ha-ha, funny weird. "You went shopping with me on Saturday."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry." I remembered being a little insulted that he wanted to buy a new striped tie, even though he had a hundred at home—half from me.

"That's okay, Britt."

I held his hand, almost linking arms with him. "I'm really happy you didn't follow your dolphin to Westerville."

"I never could," he said and I could tell that he wanted to say those three _other_ words but he couldn't with everyone around.

Mr. Schuester came in with a lot of folders and crap in his hands. Before he could even put it all down, Rachel stood up (I think she did, but it was hard to tell) and said, "Mr. Schuester. I have an announcement. I have selected the perfect moving ballad for Finn and I to launch our performance at Sectionals."

"Don't," said Kurt, like he could tell I was thinking of tackling Rachel. I didn't even need to ask if he was psychic, he was. He was my boyfriend. Boyfriends are psychic.

"Me first," said Mr. Schue. "First, our competition at Sectionals are classic stool choirs: great voices but they don't move."

"Blaine can move," I said to Kurt. Blaine had come for a karaoke/dance party with Mercedes and Tina yesternight. Kurt and me and Blain and Mercedes had to all hide from Tina that Kurt and me were a thing. It was actually very funny.

Kurt nodded. "But the Warblers can't."

"How do they walk?" I had a quick image of everyone floating to class and wondered why Kurt didn't go there—not that I wanted him to.

"Now, if we're going to beat them, we have to do what they can't." Mr. Schue looked at all of us. "Dance. Which is why I've decided to feature Brittany and Mike Chang's sweet moves in our performance."

Kurt gave me a really tight congratulations hug—or as much of a hug as he could when we were both sitting. I felt my mouth stretch in a smile. Asian Squared were kissing and really excited; Mike was jammin' in his chair.

And then Rachel had to be Rachel and ruin it.

"Wait. They're going to dance in front of me when I sing my solo?"

I glared. "Now?"

"Not yet," said Kurt, petting my arm.

"You aren't getting a solo in this competition, Rachel," said Mr. Schue.

"Finally," said Mercedes triumphantly. "So what song do I get to sing?"

"I was thinking the winners of our duets competition would take the leads," said Mr. Schue, pointing to Sam and Quinn.

"Ken and Barbie?" said Rachel bitchily. "W-w-wait, are you trying to throw this?"

"You just used to be sorta unlikeable but now I pretty much feel like punching you whenever you open your mouth," said Quinn, jabbing her pencil. I wished she had jabbed a little faster and a little more into Rachel's eye.

"We were totally robbed of that win," said Kurt to me.

"I'm already dancing," I said. "Someone else should sing duets."

Kurt shrugged.

"Look, I've talked the talk about everyone in here feeling special for over a year now, but frankly I haven't walked the walk," said Mr. Shue honestly. "I mean, we have got a lot of talent in here and I'm going to highlight it. I had an idea for a solo for you, Kurt," said Mr. Schuester.

"M-me?"

"By far, the most moving performance any one of us has given was _I Want to Hold Your Hand_."

"I'm going to sing Beatles for Sectionals?" said Kurt, his voice really high and nervous.

"_No_, Mr. Schuester," said Rachel, like she couldn't believe what was happening. "While Kurt's performance was wonderful, I don't think the Ohio show choir judges would identify with the up-beat, dance number sung to a lover becoming a ballad to one's Dad. They—they wouldn't underst—"

Kurt looked like he would jump on her. "No. Not yet," I told him.

"I'd be honoured to, Mr. Schuester," he said coldly. That shut her up.

"Great, that's two songs down," said Mr. Schue, clapping his hands.

From below us, I heard Rachel say "Do something!" to Finn, punching him in the arm with her big Man Hands.

"I'm all for pumping up the team, making everyone feel special, but that's for practise. You don't take the star quarterback out before the big game."

Rachel was like a bobble head—yep, yep, yep. Everyone else was just stunned he had dared to say that; it was really unfair.

"Easy to say when you're the star quarterback," said Tina with a nasty smile.

"This isn't just about me," said Finn, sounding guilty. "This is about the team."

"You are such a hypocrite," said Santana angrily.

"Like you even know what that means!" said Rachel.

"It means that your boyfriend is full of shit, Hobbit!" I thought someone would have to hold her down to stop her from attacking Rachel. I would hold Rachel so Santana could claw out her eyes.

Rachel, all four feet of her, stood up. "Ever since the wedding, you've been up my butt and I'm sick of it!"

Santana exploded: she had slept with Finn. I looked around. Everyone's eyes were popping out. Wait. I thought everyone knew that.

Rachel sat down hard, like someone shoved her. God, I wish I could've.

"Mr. Schue," said Finn, quickly, like he was trying to make it up to Rachel by arguing. "If you take out the stars—"

"So, what you're saying is that you and Rachel are our best singers," said Kurt meanly, leaning forward to try and look at Finn. "Our very own Sonny and Cher."

"I thought Sonny and Cher could dance," I said.

"Mr. Schuester, if I may?" His voice was strained, like he pulled it. Before he had asked, he was already standing in front of the piano. Kurt had thrown his stuff at his chair, making everything fly around, and his pens roll away.

Mr. Schue moved away, but not very far and he didn't look happy about it.

Kurt looked directly at Finn and Rachel. "You two are fabulous singers, really, but this isn't Vocal Adrenaline. We have more great singers than you two, but we've constantly written our lists around you two. Our power couple. And why? Because you, Rachel, will never close your mouth if we won't give you the solos because you believe the show choir world revolves around you and grovels at your feet."

I didn't understand all he said, but he was mad, like _really_ mad. Red face, super sonic, super fast voice, hands on hips—he'd wanted to say this for a long, long time.

"Finn, I'm sorry, this isn't your fault, not really." Kurt calmed down a little bit and started to look embarrassed. "You just happen to be attached to this selfish diva. That's all." He looked at Mr. Schuester and smiled like a cat. "That's all I needed to say. Thank you."

And he sat back down beside me, letting out a long breath of relief before smiling at me with that great, great Superman smile.

First it was Santana, then Tina, and Quinn, and Artie, and everyone joined in applauding Kurt.

"Well said, Porcelain," said Santana, using Coach Sue's cute nickname that I was forbidden from using. "That's just what they needed. Bravo."

Rachel looked from Kurt to Finn to Santana, before running out.

Kurt looked at me, worried. "Was that too much?"

"Yes," said Mr. Schuester in a hard voice. "It was. I might have enabled Finn and Rachel, given her the majority of the solos, but you stepped the line."

"Why? All he did was tell the truth," said Santana, crossing her arms and giving attitude. "Can't anyone call it like it is in here? I think we'll get along much better, Hummel."

Kurt smiled weakly.

Mr. Schuester shook his head, looking at them, before saying, "All right, Brittany, Mike, get down here so we can start choreographing."

***.***

I was almost whistling for the rest of the day. I had new clothes, a new solo (this one before a competition audience), a not-so-new love, and had gotten the chance to rip Rachel Berry a new one. It almost got me singing _Rose's Turn_ again.

Bookbag empty of the day's papers, I was planning to catch Brittany, snuggle up watch _Moulin Rouge_ with her—my favourite modern movie adaption of a musical—hopefully before Finn got home from football practise. I passed a darkened science classroom and saw a familiar blond standing in the corner, like a preschooler in a time out.

The _Cheerios_ written in red cursive on her school jacket gave her away; there was a faint blue mark from a previous slushie covering the _–ios._

"What's wrong, Britts?" I edged into the dark class.

"I'm paralyzed with fear," she said in that ultra calm voice that showed she was a lot more scared than she was letting on. "I've been here since second period, and I really_, really_ have to pee."

"What're you afraid of?" I asked gently, putting an arm around her and turning her towards the light. "You and me are going to kill it at Sectionals, we should be ecstatic."

"But we aren't on drugs," she said, confused. Then it hit her. "Oh. Yeah. That's the thing, though. The pressure. I know I'm more talented than all of you—Brittney Spears taught me that—it's just… I can't have whether we win or lose on my shoulders."

My smile faltered. It _was_ a big responsibility…

"We all know you can do it," I said, waving away my own worries at the same time. "You're the best dancer we've got."

"Talent means nothing with stage fright. I know I can't." A small whimper.

I pulled her into a full hug. "Oh, Britt."

"Just like I know the cricket that reads to me at night is totally stealing my jewellery."

I decided not to tackle that one. "It'll be up to you, me, Mike, Santana, and Sam and Quinn—not just you. It's up to all of us, and this time we'll win without Rachel and Finn."

She laughed a little. "That was cool, what you did with the Glee Club."

I smiled into her hair. "We'll see. If they quit, we don't have enough members for Sectionals." She pulled away from me. "Better?"

She grinned from ear to ear. "We're going to win. Because of the Glee Club and _not_ Finchel."

"Right."

I took her hand and we walked to my silver Escalade. Surprising how they were all willing to ignore the fact that Brittany and I had been flirting with disaster more and more, but sharing a one-armed, half-hug with Sam had earned us both distasteful nicknames and Ice Backers—that's the one when the pull the collar of the shirt away and dump the slushie down your spine. Highly unpleasant, and forcing me to wear my shirts untucked with a racing stripe down my back.

I had put in place new rules to govern my life at McKinley, if I were to remain a Titan and not become a Warbler at my Dad and Carole's insistence. Rule Number One: never, ever go anywhere on grounds (or off) alone. This was accomplished through a great deal of self-discipline to not use my locker in between classes, and a long night of synchronising my schedule and my friends'. Rule Number Two: better to run from Karofsky than attempt confrontation—fairly simple. Rule Number Three: try to start the "rumour" that Britt and I were dating in preparation for coming out.

We were perhaps halfway across the parking lot when Rule Number Two came into effect. The nightmarish figure of Karofsky could be spotted at the lunch bleachers nearly twenty meters away.

I gripped Brittany's hand tighter and forced us to walk faster, quick-starting my car and unlocking the doors, praying that he didn't see me. When I turned the key in the ignition, I felt the sudden urge to run them over.

"We going to watch that _Mooing_ movie?" asked Brittany when we were almost to my house.

She put her hand on my leg, something she hadn't done since our first date, and while I didn't react as violently as the first time, I still felt that pull of blood moving southward from my brain. God, this could not help my reaction time.

She smiled, as I attempted to nod casually. "You're the best boyfriend ever."

"Even if I crash this car and kill us both?"

"Even if you crash the car and kill us."

And she kissed me.

I think I _almost_ crashed the car. That guy who was honking like a goose sure thought I did.

***.***

No one was happy in Glee Club that next morning. Everyone was saying things like "We should _not_ clap" and "Our set's going to be real light". No one liked that option that we might not win this time.

I thought that we might not even win, despite my dance with Mike that was going great, and said, "If we lose, we should throw possums."

I sat beside Kurt. He was scribbling in his notebook, bent over his crossed legs (which was really hard to do), and he shut the book as soon as I sat down. I saw the words "_kissed a girl"_, so I hoped he was planning his coming out song.

Then Rachel, mean, superficial (one of Kurt's best words), old Rachel, decided to go on strike. I wished I could've tied her up with that ducktape and left her in the desert to die.

And Mr. Schue blew up like Kurt did.

"Boom," I whispered.

Schuester had thrown his papers down hard, and they flew everywhere like tiny, unfolded paper airplanes.

"Take that off! I'm sick and tired…"

"He should've done this last year," Kurt said. I low-fived him.

"…lousy sport, terrible attitude, and it's not okay anymore!"

Rachel was being selfish, selfish Rachel, like always. She sat down disappointedly, holding the silvery tape and crunching it into a little ball.

Mr. Schue gave us all a long speech on how we should've be so into ourselves… or something like that. We should be happy about Glee Club and going to Sectionals, and we should be everyone's cheerleading squad. I was cool with that, as long as I got to dance. Kurt made a bit of a face but didn't say a word.

That class was like the other Glee classes: Mike and me making our dance in the corner, while Santana (who had picked the lucky number out of the top hat that didn't have a bunny in it) found a song to sing and everyone else working on vocal warm-ups. Kurt didn't want to sing and lose the power his performance had.

When Glee was over, Kurt and I went back to his car, heading home. It was funny, but we had a good habit going: I'd get dropped off at school, go to school, head home with Kurt and walk home from there. I liked his car, anyways. It was shiny and silver and had great music.

He always twisted the volume thing because it was always blasting. I liked to smile, thinking of Kurt in this big, macho car, blasting Patty LaPony out his windows at seven in the morning.

"Oh, I found a bootleg of another musical I think you'd like," he said excitedly. "This is the soundtrack, actually."

"_You live on Avenue Q! You live on Avenue Q! You live on Avenue Q!"_

The song was fun, like the Sesame Street theme tune. "Cool."

"I know. The play is really fun and cartoonish, so I thought it would appeal—" Kurt had gotten into his mode where he talked and talked and didn't really notice anything else. He was talking and puppets and stuff like that.

The next song was a little piano-y and made me think. And when I think, I can't stay happy. With every line my heart fell until I was sure it was near my feet.

_"There's a fine, fine line_

_between a lover, and a friend._

_There's a fine, fine line_

_between reality, and pretend;_

_And you never know 'til you reach the top_

_if it was worth the uphill climb._

_There's a fine, fine line_

_between love,_

_and a waste of time_

_There's a fine, fine line_

_between a fairy tale, and a lie._

_And there's a fine, fine line_

_between "you're wonderful" and "goodbye"._

_I guess if someone doesn't love you back_

_it isn't such a crime_

_But there's a fine, fine line_

_between love,_

_and a waste of your time_

_And I don't have the time to waste on you anymore._

_I don't think that you even know what you're looking for._

_For my own sanity I've got to close the door_

_And walk away..._

_Oh..._

_There's a fine, fine line_

_between together,_

_and not._

_And there's a fine, fine line_

_between what you wanted,_

_and what you got._

_You gotta go after the things you want_

_while you're still in your prime._

_There's a fine, fine line_

_between love,_

_and a waste of time."_

"—and, well, that's Kate Monster. She's got a great voice, but they're all—" Kurt stopped mid-sentence, his mouth forming a perfect little circle. "You _can't_ be thinking what I think you're thinking."

"I don't know. You know when songs are just _there_, and they seem to fit?" I tried to explain this lump of confusion, but there was no real way to say it.

"You think we're a waste of time?" he asked in a little voice.

"If you'd be happier with a guy because we both know I'm just a girl—"

That was the first and only time Kurt had ever lost his temper with me.

He smacked the steering wheel with his hand and jerked against his seatbelt. "Goddamnit, Brittany, you know that's such total bullshit! I love you, not some nameless dude, and don't ever say that you're 'just a' anything ever again."

The only sound was the sliding of the tires on the road; I stayed quiet the rest of the ride. "Sorry."

Kurt sighed and unclicked his seatbelt. "Can't you ever think of yourself for a change? What makes _you_ happy?"

"You do."

"Then, stop saying shit like that."

The way he slammed his door made me know that I wasn't totally forgiven.

"Hey, I'm home!" Kurt shouted when he got inside.

Mr. Burt's voice came from somewhere. "What's got your tie in a twist?"

"Nothing!"

Kurt and me watched that musical/movie on his laptop. Both of us were on the same couch, but we were on opposite ends of it and he spent the entire movie scribbling in his stupid notebook. I might as well have been in China. Or at my house.

***.***

It was my fault, my stupid mistake, but it was still made—never mind by whom. Britt thinks it was her, but it was me.

I had gotten to school far too early—my alarm clock was malfunctioning—and planned to sit it out in the choir room, doodling and writing out the individual instrumental parts for what I was calling The Closet-Opening Extravaganza v2.0, since v1.0 was when I was naive and believed no one thought I was gay. Seriously, though, how many coming-out songs must a man plan?

One picked lock later and I was curled up in Schue's office chair with a sleepy, foggy head, thinking of Finn's face when I told him I was "awake and no way going to stay home and do nothing". I was regretting that now.

The notebook perched on my knee, I sang quietly to myself, trying to imagine piano notes instead and if that was any good. I didn't have the spirit to go open the piano and test it for real. Honestly, the library wasn't even open yet. I eyed the enemy piano across the room.

"If you're going to survive the next hour, you've gotta do _something_," I told myself, using all my non-existent upper body strength to lift the lid and not crush my fingers.

I sat at the piano and started to play by memory what I had experimented with at home, humming _I Kissed a Girl_, but my mind wandered. I knew I was distracted and I could feel grey hairs sprouting by the minute, but was it really that noticeable? Dads are meant to be concerned—particularly with their bi sons who are bullied for being gay and having a secret girlfriend—but did he have a point? Was Brittany's involvement really getting to me?

My fingers plunked on the keys tunelessly.

The love was worth all the stress. If not, in twenty years I'd be singing _Someone Like You_—or laughing all this off with my husband as my dim-witted teenage experimentation with sex and puppy love. Maybe every gay guy had fantasies about girls, too. How did I know? Ask Blaine?

I snorted, then flinched at how that conversation would go. Hey, Blaine, do you ever jerk to girls?

Just no.

But somehow, I didn't think I was right. Better or worse, I was bi and could pretend to be gay the rest of my life or just surrender my life to however it would spin.

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and splashed on the ivories.

I pushed myself away from the piano and closed it. I turned for a tissue and instead saw Karofsky staring at me though the doorway. We must've stayed stock-still for a solid five minutes before I asked if he was going to threaten me again.

"I'll get kicked out for sure if Figgins really thinks I'm doing something to you." There was a hollow quality to his voice that reminded me about his own struggle.

"No one else knows." I felt obligated to say it, despite Blaine's option. "And no one else will."

"Thanks." It was said sarcastically but I knew he was genuinely grateful.

"You know, if you want help—with your parents, with yourself—you can talk to someone." I forced myself to stand taller. "Not me, though, because while I understand why you acted the way you did, it was inexcusable and no school-issued apology will change that. There's helplines you can call, hell, I think Blaine would be glad to help; he doesn't even know the worst of it."

Karofsky fixed me with a look I knew was supposed to come out threatening, but missed anything remotely scary by a good ten meters. He just looked lost and pitiable to me. "Thanks," he mumbled again. "Don't ever talk 'bout my parents."

I watched him slouch away, nothing close to the hulk that terrorized me. And then I realised he was as scared of me as I was of him. Seeing me reminded him that he was gay, and he was convinced it would destroy his life.

***.***

The moment I heard Dad yell "Kurt, Blaine's here!" a smile curled automatically. When I saw the spit-shined formal shoes at the base of my stairs, I invited him down. Blaine drew the laces and left them on the platform; he draped himself over the couch as I fiddled with my boombox.

"So, what's the emergency?"

I turned, ready to perform for my minute audience, and my breath caught for a minute. It was hardly something really special: his blazer was upstairs on a hook, but he was just so casually gorgeous that I choked on my breath. First buttons undone, hair lightly tousled from the weakening hair gel, tie loosened.

He caught me staring and waved me on. "The emergency?"

I shook my head and forced Brittany back in my head. Despite being blasé about the possibility of me and a "dolphin", she would be heartbroken and I loved her with all my heart and soul. Hurting her was out of the question.

Business or personal first? I picked business, because I wasn't sure if I could look Blaine in the eye and discuss my relationship.

"I want to convince Mr. Schuester to let me sing more solos," I said with a sigh.

"Great. I've seen loads of guys audition for the Warblers." He sat up straighter.

"So, I want to give him a private performance after Sectionals that's just as emotional as _I Want to Hold Your Hand_."

Blaine smiled, raising an eyebrow. I had already told him over the phone my big news, unable to hold it in.

"I've chosen to sing Celine Dion's classic _My Heart Will Go On."_

Blaine's look of anticipation instantly turned to dread. "No, oh, God no."

"No?"

"No," he said firmly. "May I?" He gestured to my closed laptop and I felt a twinge of guilt at how I had treated Brittany. He opened it up and spoke as he typed. "Too many, it's way too overdone. If you're aiming for personal, you need a song that people haven't heard six ways to Sunday. If your speaking voice is anything close to the pitch of your singing voice, then you can kill this one. YouTube's got to have the instrumental somewhere. Ah!"

The opening bars of _Don't Cry For Me, Argentina_ rang through my sound system and soon the room was filled with the mournful strings. Blaine sat back and patiently waited for the opening instrumentals to end.

_"__It won't be easy you'll think it strange_

_When I try to explain how I feel_

_That I still need your love after all that I've done_

_"You won't believe me_

_All you will see is the girl you once knew_

_Although she's dressed up to the nines_

_At sixes and sevens with you_

_I had to let it happen, I had to change_

_Couldn't stay all my life down at heel_

_Looking out of the window, staying out of the sun_

_So I chose freedom running around trying everything new_

_But nothing impressed me at all_

_I never expected it to_

_Don't cry for me Argentina _

_The truth is I never left you_

_All through my wild days, my mad existence_

_I kept my promise, don't keep your distance_

_And as for fortune, and as for fame_

_I never invited them in_

_Though it seemed to the world they were all I desired_

_They are illusions_

_They're not the solutions they promised to be_

_The answer was here all the time_

_I love you and hope you love me_

_Don't cry for me Argentina _

_The truth is I never left you_

_All through my wild days, my mad existence_

_I kept my promise don't keep your distance_

_Have I said too much?_

_There's nothing more I can think of to say to you_

_But all you have to do is look at me to know_

_That every word is true"_

When I had finished the last ringing note, Blaine was looking at me in such a way that I couldn't pull my eyes from his.

"Wow," he whispered. Then he looked down and blushed. "I'm sorry."

"No." I hated how breathless and high my voice was. "That's okay." It made me sound guilty—which I was—and like there was something to be sorry for—which there was. _I have a girlfriend._

He looked and me and chuckled. "If your director doesn't give you more solos, he's insane." It would've been a joke if he had said it light-heartedly, but with his tone it sounded more like a deep compliment. Like he wanted to say more.

_I have a girlfriend… I have a girlfriend… I have a girlfriend._

I tried to tell myself I was reading too deep into things, but I didn't think I was.

I sat beside Blaine—well, almost beside, I sat near the armrest so he didn't think I was crowding him—and said, "I don't know if you'd be the right person to tell about this…" In fact, at the moment, I didn't think he was but… "I really don't know who else to tell. It's Britts."

"Is Mercedes still mad at you?" He pulled his legs up on the couch, sitting cross-legged, and rested his elbows on his knees.

"No. I don't think so, at least."

"That's great."

I was pulling for that acceptance; for that feeling girls have when they talk about their boyfriends and squeal things like _I'm so happy for you!_, what I felt when Blaine told me that I was normal. Pulling for that with a boy that I was struggling to not stare at might not have been all that smart: I watch rom-coms, I knew how this was "meant" to end.

We easily talking about Brittany, how she was acting with me, how we were fighting and how (maybe) to fix it—because I was at such a loss, _Avenue Q_ was my fix-it musical in case things went sunny-side down—and, best of all, that we had said the three magic words.

I think we both knew I was simultaneously searching for the giggly gossip session one has with best friends and that I was trying to staunch these early beginnings of what could be a fatal crush. I think I succeeded in both, though.

He knew. He was just too nice to say it.

***.***

Blaine was great. "Smooth as silk and jazz", that's what Kurt said, but when he was watching the Warblers perform, he was starting to look like Kermit the Frog instead of Porcelain. I held his hand, but I don't think he was paying any attention to me, and paying all attention to his song.

When we went to our greenroom (which was really red) to prepare, the whole Club was freaking out. Quinn was having flashbacks; Kurt had his head right between his knees (and that was a great trick); Mercedes was jealous; and Mike was trying to calm me down. Even with Kurt's support, I was scared I would just freeze up and stare. I told Mike that and that I maybe couldn't go on.

"If you do, let me lead you. We'll just improvise." Mike smiled thinly at me and sat with his girlfriend.

Kurt took his spot, soon, looking even greener than in the theater. "Okay, I have a confession to make." My heart stopped. "I'm scared of singing my first competition solo," he whispered. My heart restarted.

I looked at him with big eyes. "What? But you're the best singer in here!"

Small laugh. "That's true, but I'm just scared that I'm going to forget all the lyrics, or I'll remember them and sing and nothing's going to come out—or that I'm going to die."

He sounded so worried, and looked like a little freaked out squirrel, all twitching and shaking, that I _had_ to hug him. I remembered what he said to me.

"No one's going to die except for that audience, 'cause you are going to kill this!" I said in his ear. "I believe in you."

He bit his lip to stop from laughing, but a little greenness went away and a little of the shakes.

"Just think of your dad. He's sitting right there. Sing to him what you wanted to before when he had that heart attack."

A little less green. A little less shaky.

He even smiled. "And you gave me that heart attack book report? _Heart Attacks Are Just From Loving Too Much_."

"Yeah, what did the doctor think of that? Was it useful?" I pulled away from the hug, but kept a hand on his shoulder to make sure he knew I was still with him.

Kurt shrugged. A little bigger smile. "The doctor said they already had the information but it would add colour to the room."

And Rachel came in with a whirlwind of drama. Finn slept with Santana and lied about his virginity, but everyone knew and apparently Artie had let it slip. I dozed off a little, looking at Kurt and thinking of _his_ virginity and if he would ever let me get that far. Besides the one time he had let me go down on him, it was like he had padlocked his belt shut. Sometimes he actually had padlock belt buckles that were hard to undo.

Mr. Schue scared me when he came in here yelling at us. We all hung our heads in shame.

"Listen to yourselves! I'm ashamed of you. Think about this time last year: no setlist, no choreography, no chance in hell of winning." His voice got softer and a little nicer. "But you did win, because you did it together. I don't care if you like each other, I just want you to go out there and sing together. Get up there and, for twelve minutes, remind yourselves that you're not alone."

All of a sudden the lights started flashing and beeping at us. I held onto Kurt tighter—it was probably those aliens—but then Mr. Schuester declared "showtime" and I had to go stretch and listen to Kurt's baby angel voice and ignore the monster that had laid eggs in my stomach and might make me and Mike Chang improvise.

I looked out the red curtains (I didn't know they were actually red, but look, they were), and it looked like an awful lot more people from here than it did when I was sitting in the crowd.

***.***

"Oh, _Godddddd_!" I shifted my weight from one foot to the other nervously, trying to keep the measures straight—I was a fan of the original Beatles song and was praying to not get them confused.

I should have done my traditional vocal warm-up beforehand of _Anything Goes_ and _And I Am Telling You_, but I was trying to get myself psyched. And failing. I felt sick and kept thinking there should be one more button on this stupid shirt. I took a deep breath and tried hard to remember what it felt like to have Brittany's hand on my shoulder, her warm breath on my face, and her voice saying that she believed in me.

A surprise sneak-attack, good-luck hug could only have been from Brittany and it was. That was it. No words, nothing. Just a hug and off she went, leaving that wonderful tint of strawberries.

And there was Mercedes. She had her arms crossed but she was smiling. I knew how much she had wanted this solo (we had promised her one last year, anyhow) and how much it meant to her, but she was still smiling.

"C'mere, Kurt." She extended her arms. And another hug. This one was much friendlier. "I really hope you do well and that you enjoy every minute of this."

"I hope so and I will." I grinned and striked a pose: hands on hips, one hip to the side. "I always will do well."

She hit me and I knew that whatever animosity and jealousy she had, she had gotten over completely and I was back to being her object of abuse and venting. "Just sing, Tinkerbell."

_"And now for the last performance of the night: New Directions!"_

The stage lights went off and I knew that was my cue.

I waved to Mercedes, who went to prepare with Santana's dancers.

The thunderous applause was barely starting to fade as I parted the curtains and stood center stage, eyeing the shadow of Santana's microphone side-stage. Soft blue lights started to flick on behind me, leaving a glow that covered the stage and shaded my red shirt until it was nearly black.

Now, I could see the Dalton blazers to the left, Blaine's face an easy standout, as I didn't know the others. Dad was easy find, too; he was the only one wearing a trucker hat. I could see him nodding to people nearby, tugging their coats, and he was the last one clapping. I hoped he was saying, "That's my son." I thought he was.

The music wouldn't start until I hit my first run, which started relatively deep for me. I just hoped I could nail my lower register, without which this song was just average for me, and inject sorrow, without which this song was a Lennon-McCartney ballad.

_"__Yeah, I'll tell you something  
>I think you'll understand<br>When I say that something  
>I wanna hold your hand<br>I wanna hold your hand  
>I wanna hold your hand"<em>

Relief as such I had never known rushed through me. Ripples of applause burst from the crowd, and Dad was in a constant state of awe, on his feet the whole time.

A steady drum- and guitar-beat was pushed out and I raised my register a little.

_"Oh, please, say to me  
>You'll let me be your man<br>And, please, say to me  
>You'll let me hold your hand<br>Now let me hold your hand  
>I wanna hold your hand"<em>

I wished I had done my warm-up to prepare my voice for the power it would need. Then again, I needed to control it. My head began to spin, and I was thankful I had the time of the Sinn duet to control myself. At the moment, though, all I could do was sing to Dad and hope that my voice wouldn't crack too much with tears—and if it did, the judges would take it as my incredible acting abilities.

The blue lights faded to black, a spotlight shining on me as I took a few measured steps forward and refrained from holding my diaphragm to maintain the low voice.

_"And when I touch you, I feel happy inside  
>It's such a feeling that my love<br>I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide..."_

With every beat, lights flashed back and forth before all joining together to point at me. I had been looking in the general direction of my Dad this whole song, but couldn't resist a look side-stage to the girls who were watching me. Mercedes was clapping and holding onto Tina, nearly as emotional as me, and Britts was just smiling that beautiful smile that made me think she really did love me. And right then, I knew. It was an awful place and time to have this epiphany, but here it was: Brittany loved me as much as I loved her. She had other options, other opportunities, but she loved _me._

_"Yeah, you got that something  
>I think you'll understand<br>When I feel that something  
>I wanna hold your hand<br>I wanna hold your hand  
>I wanna hold your hand<br>I wanna hold your hand"_

Overall, I was very, very pleased with my performance and, not for the first time, was glad that I wasn't a girl and therefore didn't have to worry about waterproof mascara.

An amazing high rushed through me, sweeping me off my feet and into the magical land of Oz, or showbiz. Standing ovations… whistles… all those bodies rise up, those hands put together… Oh, wow…

The applause sounded so much sweeter when I knew that I had deserved it, not anyone else, _me._ They were applauding me and my performance—granted, half the noise was from my dad (I could hear him now and it _was_, "He's my son!"), and another ten percent from Blaine—but this was my work and effort and talent, and I knew that if I could, I would do just about anything to get this feeling back.

I waited another few seconds, took my bows, and joined the girls to the side; the curtain closed behind me. Instantly, I was surrounded by whispered congratulations, warm hugs and a sweet strawberry kiss on the cheek. Even Santana gave me a hearty pat on the back before singing _Valarie_ as she walked to the other curtained-off entrance.

That song from _Dirty Dancing_ started up and the charming match of Quinn's bell-like alto and Sam's Bruno Mars-esque voice took up the lyrics.

I was led over to the guys' side to join the chorus in the back, but I could barely register a thing they said or the one-armed, back-slapping hugs I was greeted by.

The harmonizing dancing I did in the back was second nature and the last note, belted and stylized by all, I used to hit the highest note I could without going shrill or killing my chords. Typically I didn't use my upper, upper voice because I didn't get the chance and I didn't think anyone really cared.

Finn whistled beside me, shaking his hand, like _on fire_. "Damn, Kurt."

Rachel was throwing me a look close to loathing.

I shrugged, proud but my performance rush was fast losing altitude and I was crashing like a toddler on a sugar rage. Now I understood why Mr. Schuester had drilled us this dancing until we could do it in our sleep. I wondered if Sam and Quinn felt similarly; judging by their glazed eyes, they were.

The classic hip-swinging, toe-tapping, hair-spinning, jazzy song of _Valarie_ began and Brittany and the girls went to Santana, who had the lead vocals and Rachel's sparkly microphone. She switched partners, from Mike to Brittany, who did quirky, dangerous, impossible dancing while we harmonized and jived in the back. Their dancing was very well received, earing _Ooos! _and _Awws!_ from the audience, leading into a smooth transition from applause for their last moves to for the entire performance.

***.***

I felt like I could sleep for a year, and, from the looks of things, do did Kurt and the rest of us. But, no. We had to accept that big gold trophy first, so we stood in a block and I held Kurt's hand and napped for a few minutes on his shoulder until the cheering started back up.

Kurt moving his arm woke me up. He smiled stiffly at me.

"What's going on? Can we go back on the bus now?" I rubbed my eyes.

"We _tied_? This is _such_ a fix!"

"You see, Mr. Schue, that's what you get when you don't use the stars. We _almost lost!_"

"We tied?" I asked Kurt.

He nodded, watching Mercedes accept the big gold trophy and shake hands, before watching Blaine get another big gold trophy and shake hands. "We're both going to Regionals."

It took a minute, but it did hit me. "So, we're competing with Blaine and the Warblers again?"

Kurt sighed that tired, sad sigh. "Yeah, that's what it means."

I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him hard, spinning us around on the crowded stage full of celebrating birdies and Glee kids. "But we won!" I kissed him on the lips, a fun kind of kiss that was just happiness.

And then that laugh that let me know that he was forgetting anything that had ever went wrong in his life. "We did win. God, I've gotta go find Dad! Come on."

He pulled me down the steps and around the even bigger crowd that had watched us all dance—_so many people—_before finding Mr. Burt. He got Kurt in an even tighter hug than I did, lifting him right off his feet and whooping.

"You beat 'em, son. I'm so proud of you! And when you get to the Regionals one, you'll beat 'em again, and then you'll win… what's the next one?" Mr. Burt put Kurt down so he could breathe.

"It's actually—"

But Mr. Burt wasn't done yet. "And you didn't tell me you had a—a—a special moment all by yourself! Let alone The Beatles!"

Kurt looked down, embarrassed. "It was meant to be a surprise. And it's a _solo_, Dad."

Mr. Burt got him in another bone-crunching hug. "And who knew this little lady could dance like that? God, you kids are so talented these days."

And it was my turn for the hugs and the compliments. They squeezed the air right out of me. I heard Kurt say, kinda half-heartedly, though, "_Daaaad_, let her down."

"Okay, okay." I wondered if this was what having broken ribs was like.

"Kurt, Carole just went to start the car, she says this is going to be a real Hell to get out of and, frankly, it's going to be worse with these icy roads." One more bear hug each, a group hug, and goodbyes, and he was gone, running through the crowd to find Miss Carole.

I searched for my parents, but I couldn't see them. Mom and Daddy had to be somewhere; I saw them when I was dancing. But everyone was moving around now and there was no way I would find them until they picked me up from the school. I smiled at Kurt.

"I'm going to come out when we get back the McKinley," said Kurt secretly with a little wink and that happy, biting-my-lip-to-keep-in-the-happy-that's-going-to-blow-up-this-place smile.

My day couldn't get any better. I couldn't even ask if he was sure, because he had thought about it really seriously. He was sure. He wanted this.

Right in front of everyone, I kissed him again. This wasn't the _we won_ peck up on stage, this was a real _I love you and can't imagine life without you anymore_ kiss that made me want to fall into him and just be with him in private forever, where we could talk and kiss and just have fun and be in love.

***.***

I was ready—I hoped, at least. I didn't know. I knew I loved her, but I wasn't sure if I wanted people to know. No, that was wrong. I wanted people to know, I just didn't want to hear their reactions.

Still, there I was, standing in front of the piano wearing a cashmere sweater, regular jeans and a fitted leather jacket—what I imagined was my "straightest" outfit—just before the end of Glee Club.

"I know, after our recent split-victory with the Warblers and the resulting party, many of you have noticed that… well, that there's something different with me." I tried to avert my eyes from Brittany's general direction; she squirmed in her chair with anticipation. "And, to be honest, we've told each other anything and everything important in our lives. So, something has happened recently and it's shaken me."

I paused for dramatic effect—I actually had written all this out and inserted _dramatic pause_ between these pronouncements. Everyone looked confused or concerned for me; they all must've thought it was Karofsky and I was going off the deep end.

"I'm in love," I said simply. Finn looked at me wide-eyed. "With a very special individual sitting in this room." Finn turned a little green and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

I admit, I strayed from my speech here. "Oh, for God's sake, Finn, it's not you!"

A few bubbles of laughter as everyone revolved to look at Finn, who had lost the unhealthy colour. But then, every guy looked a little ashamed, because they were all sure it was one of them and they would have to let me down gently. I knew right then that the only reason Mr. Schuester let me go on was because he knew it was Britt, who was tapping her feet and biting her lip.

"I'd like to serenade this individual right now, in the auditorium. If you will please…" As soon as I was out of their sight, I ran like I had never run before to the stage and cued the band that was chatting backstage. "Places, gentlemen."

I let out a nervous breath and took my place in the middle of the stage. No fancy lights, no big production; just me and the stage lights on their lowest setting. The gentle horns and strings ballooned behind me and dimly echoed over the seats—the first few rows occupied by the Glee Club.

I focused on manipulating my Broadway voice, the voice that told a story, that spoke with song, speaking with a tang of singing.

_"I am what I am.  
>I am my own special creation.<br>So, come take a look,  
>give me the hook<br>or the ovation."_

Rachel was confused now. She knew the song (how couldn't she?), it was from _La Cage aux Folles_, a musical that focused on the pride you can have in who you were born as. The main characters were a proud, out gay couple who struggled for acceptance by their friends, family and the world.

Now you get why she was so confused.

_"It's my love that I want to take a little pride in.  
>My world, and it's not a place I have to hide in.<br>Life's not worth a damn  
>Till you can say,<br>Hey world, I am what I am."_

Brittany was looking at me from behind Artie and Santana with something between awe and love. I hoped it was more love than awe, because this is what I had wanted to say to the Club, more than anything else.

_"I am what I am  
>I don't want praise, I don't want pity.<br>I bang my own drum, some think it's noise,  
>I think It's pretty.<br>And so what if I love each feather and each bangle?  
>Why not try to see thing from a different angle?<br>Your life is a sham,  
>'Til you can shout out loud: I am what I am.<em>

_"I am what I am  
>And what I am needs no excuses.<br>I deal my own deck,  
>Sometimes the ace, sometimes the deuces.<br>There's one life and there's no return and no deposit.  
>One life, so it's time to open up this closet."<em>

The music sped up and I pulled for the power to complete the last long, big, finale notes, maintaining my smile for the group that was sure this number would lead to disaster.

_"Life's not worth a damn till you can say.  
>Hey world, I am<br>What—I—am."_

One by one, they all stood up and applauded, cheering my superb vocals, but there was something else in there—that worry that maybe, just maybe, I had lost it and was proclaiming my love for one of the boys. Puck was looking at Sam sympathetically, but Sam was just nodding along. When I caught his eye, he even winked at me, something that did not go unnoticed and gained a few looks.

Piano tunes started to crank out from behind me, a slow, steady, moving tune that fixed the song about bisexual experimentation into a ballad.

I don't think anyone knew the song until I hit the chorus and even then, whispers broke out and people were like, _Is he for reals?_. I definitely was. I had worked very hard to make this a piano ballad and I wasn't good at rewriting lyrics or piano pieces.

_"This was never the way I planned, not my intention,  
>I got so brave, holding hands, lost my discretion<br>You're not what I'm used to, just wanna try you on.  
>My head gets so confused, hard to obey."<em>

I counted—one beat—two beats—three beats—mentally playing the piano to find where I came in. I tried to look only at Britt; I didn't want to see the jaws dropping, the looks of shock and horror. I hoped not horror, but you never know.

That was the hardest thing I had ever done.

Everyone was confused, no one really knew the song. It would come to them later, but they'd think clever Kurt Hummel would change it to _"I kissed a boy and I liked it"_ to celebrate his newfound love. They need never know.

But I summoned what courage I could and admitted what had fast become the largest skeleton my closet had ever held.

_"I kissed a girl and I liked it,  
>the taste of her cherry chapstick.<br>I kissed a girl just to try it,  
>I hope the world don't mind it.<br>It felt so wrong,  
>It felt so right.<br>I think I'm in love tonight.  
>I kissed a girl and I liked it.<br>And I liked it, I did."_

My heart pounded in my ears and I felt my stomach lurch at the look of reproach Rachel was giving me. I decided not to look at Finn, my stepbrother, ex-crush, and the one I had to reassure my serenade wasn't dedicated to.

I could've played the piano, but I had planned to look them in the eye, stand proud and tell them all who I was, who had become such a part of my life—but I just wasn't that confident, I guess.

Brittany filled my focus and I concentrated like I never had in my life. I analyzed her blue-grey eyes that were always highlighted by that smile…

_"Now, I think I know your name, it's Beautiful  
>We deserve none of the blame, just human nature.<br>It's still not what good boys do, how they should behave.  
>My head gets so confused, hard to obey."<em>

_"I kissed a girl and I liked it,  
>the taste of her cherry chapstick.<br>I kissed a girl just to try it,  
>I hope my father don't mind it.<br>It felt so wrong,  
>it felt so right.<br>I think I'm in love tonight.  
>I kissed a girl and I liked it<br>I liked it, I did."_

This time, as the piano drifted off into nothingness, there was no applause as I stood, straight-backed, eyes lowered, hands on my waist, my right leg tilted out and my left foot ahead. It was the best attempt at my usual confident pose that I could manage.

I knew without looking that everyone was staring at me, their faces identical masks: eyes like saucers, jaws reaching the floor and their faces various unhealthy colours. For several minutes, the only sound was that of breathing and my thudding heart that I was positive giving me a heart attack.

There was one, solitary clap, coming from Brittany before Quinn held her hands closed—as if this was another dumb Brittany thing, like she didn't get it, that this wasn't a celebration of who I was; it was an admission of guilt.

That clap jerked me out of my statue phase and into my slightly hysterical talking phase.

"I just wanted to share those two short numbers with you. The former, _I Am What I Am_, is from a classic French musical and sets up my cover of the pop hit _I Kissed a Girl_ perfectly. So, what I am is that I—"

"Hold on, you're not gay?" It was Puck. I still refused to look up, but heat rushed to my face.

"No, I'm not. I'm—whether you like this term or not—bisexual, leaning more towards guys for the physical attraction."

Silence.

Half the room already knew and the other half had to have guessed—so where were the brave ones who could get some normalcy back in here?

Sam… Mercedes… Brittany… Santana… Mr. Schuester… Artie, to an extent… Finn, if he had thought about it…

They all knew, or could've, so—I dared a peek at the row of guys—why were they all so stunned? Sam now was the one who looked at me sympathetically. I silently pleaded with him to do something, anything.

"Why are we all staring at him?" said Sam.

Better than nothing.

"I mean, he did an awesome job on both those songs and it had to have taken a lot of work to get a ballad outta _Kissed a Girl_. Great job," added Sam, and he started clapping. Brittany joined in, then Mercedes, and Santana, and the rest by peer pressure.

I accepted it in kind, crossing my leg back for a flourished bow. I think I knew why the guys were looking at me like that, as I straightened again, I was still _so freakin' gay._ I was still Kurt, that's what they told themselves. But Kurt took Home Ec and was a male soprano, he wore fancy brand-name clothes and wanted to go to Broadway. He was _gay_. And he kissed a girl. He _loved_ a girl. Do not compute.

I jumped off the stage and grabbed my coat from where I had thrown it earlier. Brittany grinned at me. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"You should know," I said with a smile, buttoning my coat back up, expecting to be able to go home and breathe air that didn't smell of my dying reputation.

Brittany bolted across the front row and squeezed me around the middle before kissing me, taking away any need to say who it was. Even though I had known all along that it wasn't true, standing there in silence, unable to look or think, I had never felt more alone. Now, Brittany was there, and I wrapped my arms around her neck.

"That's enough." Mr. Schuester cleared his throat.

Brittany reluctantly released me, holding onto my waist and smiling that wonderful smile.

Artie looked like he was going to throw up; he had been right to suspect something. Puck was frozen, his eyes darting as though searching for an escape. Santana and Mercedes each made their respective faces of disgust and _Aw!_; Santana was disgusted and Mercedes was _Aw!_-ing. Quinn was staring at Sam, averting her eyes and questioning him. Mike and Tina each appeared to have something caught in their throat, eyes bulging like toads'. I half expected Rachel to faint right then and there; she was awfully pale and was grasping onto Finn for dear life. However, Finn wasn't much better off.

"So, when she was coming over, you two were making out?"

I hesitated, not knowing whether to tell the truth, but Brittany was already nodding. "Sometimes."

I could hear Finn's gag from over there. "_Dude!_" I could only hope that gag was because his gay stepbrother and ex-stalker was snogging a girl twenty feet from him.

"So when Rachel comes over to avoid contending with her dads, what're you doing? Watching _Barny_?" I asked, only half-sarcastic.

Finn shrugged, lowering his head. "'s going to take some getting used to, that's it, I guess."

"I think they need a few days," Brittany whispered in my ear.

"Weeks," I corrected dryly.

Mr. Schuester stood up and started to shoo the Club out of the chairs. "All right. We should go before the janitors kick us out of here. Dismissed."

I appreciated the not-so-subtle attempt to save me, and took it gratefully, running with Brittany all the way to her house. Running just for the sake of running—and I _hated_ running, but this felt more picturesque, more perfect. I felt like flying, such a great weight was lifted—no one was outwardly pissed, they still liked me—that I couldn't even help the laughter that Brittany pulled from me.

She wasn't just my secret anymore. She was really mine.

And right there, in the middle of the street, I skidded us to a stop and kissed her again, feeling her own laugh of relief against my lips. Her arms snaked around me, and I told her I loved her.

I felt her response, reading her lips with mine. "I love you more than Lord Tubbington."

That was the best compliment she had ever given me.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>Complaints? Compliments? Too many songs, any in particular you want me to add in?<br>**

**This is something else that I must know, ASAP.  
>How long should I continue this? Just one chapter per episode until I catch up to season 3, Kurttany-fied?<br>Or should I stop somewhere and give them a nice ending?  
>There will be at least one or two more if people want this to end.<strong>

**It's just something that I must ask! (It might be dumb, but still...)  
><strong>


	10. Welcome Christmas, Spread Your Light

**Disclaimer**: Good Lord, not mine. I despise Saturday Night Fever. I don't know what they were thinking. *shakes head* Finn... singing BeeGees. Right back to season 1 with his vocals.

**This is my adaption of the episode s02e09: A Very Glee Christmas. I think I made this so much more depressing than it needed to be, but since Brittany isn't with Artie, I had to make this believable.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"What're you doing for Christmas?"<p>

Kurt stopped stabbing his jacket with a tiny knife and looked at me. "What do you mean?"

I shrugged, leaning further into him. "You going to someplace with no snow or…?"

"I'll be staying in Lima," he said, starting to sew again. "Sorry." He turned the jacket over and almost knocked me with it.

"That's okay." I liked watching him work. It was interesting, and he got this really intense look on his face that was one of the few times I could really say he looked sexy, instead of just cute or gorgeous. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

"I love Christmas," I said.

The corners of his mouth flattened out, like he didn't like something. "I like Christmas, too."

We were laying in his bed, and I was right beside him. It had to have been a little awkward to sew, but he was really good, and I think he liked to hold me. It made things a little more real, at least to me it did.

He finished sewing the new jacket together and folded it, dropping his little supplies on the tiny table next to his bed, before putting his lips on the little hollow dip on my throat, and kissing his way up to my lips. I guessed he was finished his work.

We didn't hear the thunder steps and then Finn forgot to knock, like always. "Did you—?"

"Son of a bitch!" Kurt pulled away from me so fast and so hard that he landed on the floor. "Sorry, what was it?" He stood up carefully, holding his knee.

But Finn had completely forgotten what he had wanted to say. "Um…" He stood there, filling the whole doorframe, and looked from me to Kurt for a while. "Did you—I was going to ask if you had bought those weird green leafy things in the fridge, but I guess the answer was yes."

Kurt climbed back on the bed and put an arm around me. "I do the shopping in this house," he said, but his voice was a little too high. When I leaned my head against him, he felt a lot warmer than he was supposed to.

Finn scuffed his feet self-consciously. "Yeah, that's why I guessed. I just wondered if Burt picked up the… wrong… thing. Hey, Brittany, why are you wearing—never mind."

He stopped because he realised he was just going to ask if I was wearing anything under the zip-up sweater I had stolen from Kurt's clothes shed. I wasn't. My clothes were in the dryer because I had fallen in a snow heap. I was just glad Finn wasn't asking if I was wearing pants under the covers. 'Cause I wasn't.

Kurt didn't mind, and his pants didn't fit me right.

Finn left quickly, closing the door behind him.

Kurt stood up and put all his newly sewed clothes in the closet and clicked up his computer. "So, any new ideas for fancy duets?" It was our new favourite thing to do, think of awesome songs for the other to sing for Mr. Schue to try and convince him to get us to do the opening duet for Regionals.

"I'm still waiting for _Last Friday Night_."

He laughed.

"And why aren't you saying, 'So, now, where were we?' in that sexy voice?" I asked, leaning forward.

He made a face and pointed at the door. "Finn." Kurt sat up a lot straighter. "Wait—sexy?"

"Lock the door," I suggested.

"There's no lock."

"Put a chair up against the doorknob like in horror movies."

"Tried it. Doesn't work."

"Tell Finn to go away."

"I—" He thought for a minute. "He killed the mood."

I rolled my eyes and stretched out under the covers. The mood was _never_ killed. Kurt's eyes darkened and got that guy-shine that guys get when they see someone that turns them on.

"Come on," I said softly. I rolled over onto my front and sat up, pulling the blanket with me like a cape. I let it slide down the curve of my back.

"Nice try, Britts." But he didn't sound totally uninterested.

I fell back onto the bed. Typically when I had a boyfriend, I would've been sending them awesome pictures like this a long time ago. This was kind of my way of repaying Kurt for what he missed when I thought it would scare him.

I started to unzip the hoodie and tried to look him in the eye, but he was looking a little too far south for that.

Then, unluckily (it had to be that black cat Charity kept playing with), the washing machine stopped whirring and the sudden quiet made Kurt jump up and say, "Your clothes are finished." He ran out before I could pull him back to me.

I groaned and fell back on his bed, feeling his silky smooth sheets with my legs for a few more minutes before he made me put clothes on again.

***.***

You know that feeling when you walk into a room and they just stop the conversation?

Yeah. That was me the next day. Previously, I was given odd looks. Sometimes if someone didn't recognise me they would stare at my clothes and wonder what guy would _ever_—oh, it's just Kurt. But that was one or two people, a bit of pointing, a bit of giggling, no harm done.

Now, stares followed me constantly. A smirk or nasty comment from the more uncouth individuals, but the ones who felt for me would only shake their heads and frown. They thought I was cowardly (or reasonable, depending on your view of Karofsky and homophobic bullying) and had tiptoed back into the closet.

So, I wasted as little time as possible in between classes, abandoned my comfortable seats in the corner for ones up front where I couldn't see the heads turn, people leaning together to whisper then look back at me, gossip spreading like a virus. Now, I could feel the eyeballs boring holes in my skull.

I wondered how on earth this got out so fast and my brain started devising scenarios to keep my anger in and my sanity intact. Finn and Puck and Sam in the locker room, talking… chopping their heads off with a guillotine … Mike and Tina asking each other if dear Kurt was feeling okay… running them off a long, jagged cliff… Santana venomously, purposefully spreading rumours that weren't rumours… stabbing her with a nice, pointy knife. Make that many knives. Dipped in acid. And then rubbing salt in the wounds as she slowly bled to death.

I had passed murderous and cruel around first period and by the time our lunchtime practise came around, I was seriously considering breaking into the Chem. labs and the Home Ec room to execute my vision and Santana.

I marched into Glee with my head held high. I was fairly early, but the second to arrive and my icy resolve melted as Mercedes (in all her gold, sparkly, tasteful-Christmas glory) gave me a tinsel-topped hug. Now was the time of the year when she added sparse gold strands to her weave, which only accentuated her rich skin tone and the yellow gold dangle earrings from last year's Christmas—given my _moi_, of course.

"Sorry to hear," she said, returning to her bag and seat.

I waved off the concern and pointed to her familiar science textbook. "Test?"

"Assignment," she grumbled.

"Gimme."

Mercedes made an act of being reluctant to cheat off me, but she even gave me her good gel pen when I requested it.

"So, where did you pull that boy outfit from yesterday?" teased Mercedes when I was halfway finished. "I thought you only made girl clothes in that tailoring place you call a basement."

I laughed. "Bits and bobs of boy clothes are everywhere in my closet. Flannel or checked shirts are the only things that go with my solid sweaters, and jeans—"

"_Puh_-lease. If we're going through all your closet, we're gonna be here a while. Hey, Brittany!"

I looked up and saw Brittany run in here. "Hey, Kurt." She pulled a chair closer to me, trying to read the science work. "That looks like the furball Lord Tubbington coughed up yesterday plus a lump of green Jell-O." She pointed to the cell diagram.

Mercedes started laughing.

Brittany shrugged sheepishly. "It does." She turned my head and kissed me hello. "How was everyone to you?"

I lifted a shoulder, not wanting to talk about it but also not willing to give a direct answer. "Not bad. What about you, love?"

"No one really cared." Britts squealed a tiny squeak and threw her arms around me. "I'm so happy we can be us! Ooo!"

" 'Ooo!'" I imitated her high voice which, sadly, was easy for me to do.

Still holding my arm, she swatted me. "Ku-urt!" She pulled my name into two syllables with that long, annoying voice. Brittany set her face hard. "I wanted you to help me set up my Christmas stocking, but if you don't want to…"

I sighed dramatically and stood up, waving to Mercedes and handing her back her almost finished homework. Brittany led me by the hand to her locker, before pulling us both to the ground, only a little bit physically. She unzipped her backpack and I helped her to put up a chain of ice blue star lights that were powered by a hunk of a battery, a silver and red garland, plenty of stickers and little pin-up Christmas-themed critters, and a tiny red stocking in the very back.

I leaned back against the wall of lockers, while Brittany surveyed our teamwork. "Last year, I left my stocking in there over Christmas vacation and an entire family of mice started living in it. Their gift to each other was rabies."

I stopped myself from laughing. "Cool. Only thing I'm asking my Dad for: the entire collection of_ The Carole Burnett Show._ And to stop watching reruns of _Ice Road Truckers_ when _So You Think You Can Dance?_ is on. I mean, Finn likes _So You Think_, too."

"So I think what? Oh, I see." Brittany nodded. "Yeah. When all the girls' skirts fly up and they spin around, holding real tight." I tried to protest, saying that's not why _I_ watched the show, but she cut me off. "Of course not. You have me," she said happily, lying on her legs mermaid-style. "So, what're you asking Santa for?"

I stared at her for a good long while, but that benign smile stayed put. "I'm sorry?" _You cannot be serious…_

"Kurt," she said seriously, her voice lowering and that smile falling. "Those roads to the North Pole are treacherous. You need to write your letter to Santa real fast and mail to today—and remember, even the smallest envelope is heavy for an elf." She started smiling again. "Come on. We should decorate your locker, too. Put up a stocking. If not, where will all the Christmas magic go? To someone else, that's who."

I was still sitting at her locker, eyes wide, as she ran down the hall to mine. I could see Britt's face when she opened it and put a hand to her mouth and grinned when she saw my _Team Unicorn/Courage_ monument.

"No _way_," I whispered to her tiny, raggedy stocking. She was not… she could not…

Something needed to be done…

"… I know we've already got our own magic, as Unicorn Mates, but Christmas magic is much stronger because it only comes once a year and only one person can give it. Unicorns are rare, but there's more than one and…"

***.***

I was almost skipping when I went back to Glee with Kurt. I was a little worried for his Christmas wishes and dreams, but Kurt had a way of making his dreams come true, so I wasn't _that_ worried. He was still so surprised to hear that the North Pole was dangerous. With the ice caps melting, the roads were thinner and wetter. And wetter meant slipperier, and that's not good for reindeer hooves.

The band was just staring one of my favouritest Christmas songs—_Island of Misfit Toys—_so I started to swing with Kurt, doing that fancy dance he got me to teach Mr. Burt for the wedding. A waltz, that was it. All I knew was that every time we spun, he started to get a little happier, until he twirled me around—and around—and around—and back to him.

We sang and helped wrap presents with shiny, patterned paper and thick, gold, lacy ribbons. We decorated the scrawny tree, dangling gold fluffy stuff and popcorn strings that were actually strung, and coloured balls that made little reflections of colour on the ceiling, until the words were gone and the music had ended. I really didn't wish it had stopped.

I noticed a few of the Glee Club were staring at us, but most of them were fine, smiling a little when we were dancing, but just decorating. It looked like the Club were cool with us. It might have just been Christmastime.

Mr. Schuester came in with a tiny, but very pretty, gold tree that was dark green, unlike our skinny pale thing. I kinda liked it, though, even if, according to Puck, Santana and Finn, most of it was stolen. I remember Santana asking me the other day if I could help her move some stuff out. This must've been it. That was a fun day, with lots of sneezy dust and Santana even bought us winter ice creams.

Mr. Schue went on another one of his "I know you suck, but don't say you suck and don't sit around without doing something to make you not suck" rants, and I asked Kurt how we got to this bit.

"Glee Club is like this withered husk of a Christmas tree—broken, sick, beaten and mocked—but it's still magical," said Kurt.

"That's deep," I said, very impressed.

"This year, Glee Club is going to lend a hand to the McKinny Bento Homeless Children Youth Program right here in Lima," said Mr. Schuester, setting his Christmas-tree-in-a-pot on the piano top.

"How're we going to do that?" asked Rachel. She was one of the people staring earlier, I saw. I think she was intimidated by us.

"The only way we know how. By singing about it. We're going to go classroom to classroom, carolling, to raise money for—"

"Did he say carolling?" asked Kurt flatly.

"Yep."

"As of now, I have the flu and have broken my leg." He folded his arms together and made a disgusted face.

Quinn agreed with him. "We're going to be killed."

But Finn didn't agree. He thought Christmas miracles would protect us; I thought so, too, but I didn't think Santa could get all our letters that quickly. There's always a certain amount of Christmas magic in the air in December, but not enough to protect all of us.

A little bit of practise swaying and bobbing to few songs all of us knew how to sing, and we were off to our first class. At least we got to cut class. And we were given warm wool scarves and red and white roll knitted sweaters, like Nana made them.

No one really liked us. No one was smiling, and I was just happy I was standing in the back, protected by Finn's big, basketball-playing body. Kurt was closer to the front, though, so he wasn't so protected.

"You suck!"

Mercedes stopped for a second, but kept on singing, glad for her solo.

"I'd really rather be learning."

We pushed through, still humming and swaying and—

"If you're going to go back into the closet, you might as well do a better job of it!"

Silence. No one said a word. I wished I could've touched Kurt, but even though all I could see was the back of his head, I knew he was pale and looked even taller and slimmer than he was.

***.***

It was just some punk-ass fucker who had never learnt to keep his mouth shut. Stupidly expensive highlights, chiselled face, sharp eyes, red letterman jacket—he looked intelligent and popular. One out of two isn't bad.

I was standing beside Mercedes and I felt myself shake from something deep inside. It felt like I was going to explode. I was so furious—so _deathly_ angry—that the urge to wrap my fingers around his thick neck was overwhelming, my vision was swamped with red.

And before the band could continue—they were obviously waiting for me to react—I took a few steps forward. For a few very serious seconds, I considered calling out this senior, this linebacker, this _thug_, and tell him how wrong he was. How he was jealous he didn't have Britts, how he was—

And I ran from the class to the nearest washroom, where tears of anger started to fall into the ink. I hadn't cried in anger in a while.

I thought I might actually have reached an understanding, but that was ridiculous. Being called a coward hurt so much more than a fag or a homo, because I was scared it was true. Sometimes I wondered if my initial attraction to Brittany was the possibility of a future: marriage, a child that was half me and half my love's, a real family, with no hassle, nothing. Peace. Love. Happiness.

I leaned against the door and wiped my face clean with the back of my hand, resolving to clean it thoroughly later. Right now, my mental state was the issue. I needed to calm down before a panic attack was eminent.

"Oh, shut up!"

I nearly tore my phone from my pants pocket; it had been vibrating insistently forever and was driving me mental.

Underneath the time and over my background pic (which I had changed to the alley scene out of _Lady and the Tramp_), were the words:

4: new text messages  
>1: missed call<br>66: Facebook reminders

I scrolled aimlessly through the text messages, trying to ignore the dryness in my mouth at the amount of Facebook notices.

_Brittany: _u ok?

_Finn_: how r u?

_Mercedes_: just a stoopid jock means zip

_Mercedes:_ we're in choir room come when ur ready

Easy enough. I tapped out a quick reply, saying that I was fine, but I needed a few minutes to myself. Almost instantly Mercedes responded.

_Mercedes:_ ok but u have until 1PM until i come O-Oing for you

I grimaced, but checked the missed call. Finn, but he hadn't left a message. He was probably checking if I had done a runner and ditched school completely; checking out for his (technically older) brother. I appreciated it, definitely.

I stared at the tiny blue app. The lowercase white _f_ was hardly threatening, actually very nice clean-cut. But the tiny red bubble next to it, with that double-digit number—that threw my heart into my mouth. It took all my remaining strength to click the Facebook app.

It took me quite the long time to comprehend the first notification.

**_Brittany S. Pierce_**_ is now in a relationship with **Kurt** **Hummel** – 14 hours ago  
>- <strong>Sam<strong> **Evans** and 76 other people 'like' this_

Once I understood it, the remainder of the notifications and wall posts made a cruel kind of sense. A large cold ball of dread settled in my stomach and grew with each word.

**_Sam Evans _**_wishing you luck on the dancing soprano children! _+6 'likes'

**_George Falkhart _**_how big is this fag's denial? _+9 'likes'

**_Adam Hansons_**_ next time, open the fly first, homo!1_ +12 'likes'

**_Freddie Poplar _**_XD_ +29 'likes'

**_Danny Johnson_**_ just pick a team, wouldya _+6 'likes'

**_Santana Lopez_**_ that's right, britts, scream it to the world! _+23 'likes'

**_Brittany S. Pierce_**_ I LOVE KURT HUMMEL! (and chocolate :D)_ +3 'likes'

A large photo of a heart shaped marshmallow in a steaming cup of hot chocolate accompanied the quote "Love is liked swallowing hot chocolate before it has cooled off. It takes you by surprise at first, but keeps you warm for a long time."

"Oh sweet Lord, no," I whispered, scanning the snarky, mean messages and the well-meant teasing from my fellow Gleeks that only fuelled the fire. Nothing positive. I knew it was Facebook and not to be taken completely seriously, but it made my hands tremble with shame, and then I saw Brittany's profile.

It wasn't the cute picture of her with a curly hairdo and Lord Tubbington that shocked me. Nor was it the recent status update (**_Brittany S. Pierce_**_ is going caroleing! spread Santa cheer every1!)_. Not even the amount of photos and Christmas-themed virtual goodies that littered her page. It was the amount of friends she had, friends who had gotten this message. 1531. Fifteen hundred and thirty-one. There were barely five hundred kids at McKinley!

I felt a little faint, to be honest, looking at that number. Literally, the _whole school_ knew. And all because of Facebook. I felt like throwing up.

I got up unsteadily, gripping the cold, slippery tiles for support. My nails scraped and slipped along harmlessly. I thought I was doing this on _my_ terms.

I went to the choir room in a haze of confusion and dull anger. Everyone was subdued, mumbling about the failure of classroom carolling, or decorating a new tree that Mr. Schue had almost certainly pulled from storage. Brittany brightened up and rose to meet me.

_It's not her fault. She meant no harm. Don't—_

"What the hell is this?" I asked, holding up the screen with Facebook, which was already beeping more notifications as news of the carolling spread like wildfire.

She stopped in her tracks, staring at it. "Your phone."

"You updated your relationship status," I said, deadly serious.

She got it, then. "You're my boyfriend, we came out. I thought we were okay."

"I just meant Glee Club," I said hopelessly. "Britts, not the whole school."

"Facebook isn't real," she said happily. "It's just another little world. It's not _real_, Kurt. All the little virtual worlds are connected, but—"

"They still _know_, Brittany," I said, begging her to understand.

Brittany tilted her head like a bird. "What? Oh, yeah, people know. But Facebook lives are different—"

"That's not how they see this," I said, my voice inching higher with frustration.

Brittany paused, searching for something to make me feel better. "Okay, but now, it's all out. No more secrets. And all the Glee kids don't have to worry about they Facebook and tweet—"

"Twitter," I repeated dully. "You tweeted us, too?"

Brittany looked down before nodding like a scolded child. "All the little worlds are connected," she murmured. "Facebook. Twitter. Tumblr. I'm _really_ sorry."

I let go of her hand and hugged her, perfectly aware that everyone was watching us. "_I'm_ sorry," I said softly. "I just wish you had asked me first, that's all. I understand it would've leaked, it's just—something to get used to."

Brittany returned my hug slowly.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked quietly. "That stupidhead—"

"Something to get used to. Just another kind of bullying," I said smoothly. I kissed her perfectly curled hair before letting her go. I looked over her at Sam. "And thank you for the goodwill you wish us on the 'dancing soprano children'. I'm looking forward to your trouty-mouthed blond Barbie kids with Quinn."

Any tension that had gathered broke at my words, and smiles bubbled around us.

"You didn't miss much," said Finn. "Just yelling and some teacher threw a shoe at us. We're gearing up for round two tomorrow, Kurt. Be ready."

"Pretty soon, no one will bully us," said Brittany cheerfully as she unravelled a popcorn string Tina handed her. "Santa can do anything, and this year I asked for us to stop getting picked on."

Everyone exchanged looks of confusion and smirks, as though this were a cute joke Brittany was playing on us.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Team meeting," I said quietly. The Club came within hearing distance, leaving Brittany to figure out how the popcorn strings went around the other ornaments. "Britt still believes in Santa Claus," I said quickly.

"You cannot be serious," said Mercedes blandly.

I nodded solemnly.

"Just fifteen minutes ago, Brittany believed the Facebook world wasn't real," said Sam sceptically. "This is a bad pattern."

"She's going to find out sooner or later," added Quinn.

"Someone needs to break the news," said Tina bluntly.

"Don't look at me," said Puck, holding his hands up. "I mean, I'm cruel and all but that's just hardcore."

Brittany hummed as she examined lime green felt stockings, pulling her carolling sweater closer.

"That's my point," I said weakly. "I would rather no one inform her about the true nature of the North Pole—"

"Meaning there's nothing there," said Mercedes. "Right?"

"—but to reinforce the belief. I know the tale is past its prime, but why shouldn't we try to maintain the magic in her world, the magic only children get to experience?" I crossed my arms, then tore off the maroon, Wal-Mart carolling outfit. I don't have anything against Wal-Mart itself, this just looked like it came from Wal-Mart. "I would like to give her the biggest shot of Christmas magic, then hope that her need will be pacified or at least subdued."

"How?" asked Mike, looking back at Brittany, who was still humming that Christmas tune, setting up stockings.

"I've got it all figured out," I said calmly. "Just meet me and Britts after school at the Lima Mall."

I caught her eye and she smiled beautifully. I waved half-heartedly, barely able to return it myself.

***.***

My smile was the smile of a person who's plan was falling perfectly into place. Sadly, I lost that smile when I saw the only other person at the mall.

Finn.

I hadn't talked in private with him, save for short, awkward encounters in the house we shared, since I had come out with Britts. Our relationship probably couldn't have been helped by my having a go at Rachel. I tugged my coat tighter around myself and pulled my courage together.

"Hello," I said in a voice I hoped wasn't too cold. I sat down beside him.

"Hey," said Finn. He was sitting in the food court with a fountain drink from New York Fries, which was behind him. The smells of fried food and various Asian take-out places, and there were people (mostly teenagers) running about with shopping bags and pockets of gossip.

"Puck and Mike drove me over. They're over there," said Finn after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. He pointed to the nearby HMV. "Prob'ly shop-lifting CDs. I didn't want to get caught with them."

I nodded. "Nice."

Finn gave me a look. I was rarely a guy of few words, let alone one-word responses. He turned back to people-watching without a second thought.

"What's the big Christmas plan?"

"You'll see."

"How was your day?"

"Fine. You?"

"Good. Nice winter we're having, huh?"

The weather. I just had to come out with it. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier," I said honestly. "But I would like to know if it's just that I didn't tell you, or if it's part of me telling Rachel off, or if it's—or if it's actually my being bi that's freaking you out."

Finn, who had previously been leaning on his arm in a semi-coma state, pulled his head up so fast, his neck kinked. He groaned, trying to massage the kink out. "Look, you are who you are, and even though we all thought we knew who that was, if you're sure and you're happy then I'm happy for you. Rachel knows she can be mean and selfish and all that, so you didn't really need to call her out on it, but I'm not really mad at you."

"Did you want to call a family meeting?" I asked tentatively. "Introduce Britt to Dad and Carole as my girlfriend?"

Finn shrugged, but I could tell he wished I had. "You could've."

I thought for a moment. "How does this sound to you? I'll cook a special dinner tonight, invite Brittany over, and we can all celebrate my newfound happiness."

"You do look better," Finn admitted. "Not like that!" he added in a hurry. "Just—"

"Finn." I raised an eyebrow. "I'm over you. Completely. If you must know, I do have a crush on a guy, but the object of my male interest doesn't go to this school." I felt my ears turn pink.

"Oh." Finn smiled that crooked smile that used to make me melt. "Cool. But I meant you looked more stressed out, but we could tell you were a lot happier."

"Thank you. Have our relationship returned to an equilibrium?" I asked nervously. I mean, this was the guy I was _living_ with.

Finn looked at me very seriously, the crooked smile falling but the light in his eyes staying. "If you can promise me I will never walk in on you and Brittany making out ever again, then yeah, we're cool."

I laughed, and soon Finn joined in. "Promise," I said. And I told him about my custom doorhanger, the one I had made when I had pretended to be straight. "Look for that on my bedroom door and we won't have problems."

Finn slapped me on the back. "Great."

That was Finn fixed.

***.***

Santana and Quinn and me arrived a lot later than everyone else, so we were the last ones to come. The Unholy Trinity. Santana liked to call us that. Everyone was around three or four tables in the food court in little brown iron chairs that scraped the floor, but you couldn't hear it with everyone talking.

"We're here, Porcelain," said Santana, sashaying like Charity up to Kurt and the boys. I waved a little from behind her.

"I thought we could all talk to Santa," said Kurt happily.

I went past Santana and hugged Kurt excitedly. It felt like my heart was going to blow: typically, kids our age forgot about Christmas magic, but of course Kurt wasn't one of those people. Everyone else wasn't that excited, but I knew that as soon as they saw Santa's magic face, they would all understand.

Santana nudged Kurt. "Good luck," she said, touching my hair. "I had to do this last year."

Kurt's smile got a little hard, but he led the whole Glee Club to the massive Santa Cave. It was a corner of the mall, with a huge gold chair and glittery presents, and that fluffy magicked snow that wasn't cold and you could pick up. There were even grandparent elves overseeing the conversations to the important man. It wasn't _really_ Santa, I knew that. It was an elf magicked to look like Santa who would report to him nearer to Christmas, so that there could be one strategically every few miles, so every little boy and girl could tell Santa their wishes. Piano music pinged out of the Christmas tree. There were probably fairies in there; their accents always sounded like piano notes.

We waited with all the little kids, who were still young enough to believe in magic, and I started to swing Kurt's hand back and forth. "You're the best boyfriend _ever_," I whispered so the others couldn't hear me. "I really love you."

"Love you, too," he said automatically.

We got closer to the front, and I saw a really sad-looking elf and I felt my heart try to reach out through my chest to her. "Can I be honest, I don't understand the difference between an elf and a slave?" I said, so that even Kurt couldn't hear me.

Then it was Mercedes's turn. "Go Mercedes!" I cheered, as she sat on Santa's knee and told him what she wanted most while this magic time lasted. I was bouncing with happiness as one by one, all the Glee Clubbers got to tell the representative their wishes.

Then, it was my turn. Kurt put his hand on the little curve of my back and pushed me forward.

"Next," said the welcome elf. She was old and really, really sad-looking.

"Just remember you have rights," I said. I hoped I had started a revolution, so that the North Pole could stop using forced labour.

"Ho, ho, ho," said the elf-Santa in a deep voice. This one's magic was wearing off: his skin was darker than Mercedes. He was clearly an Oompa Loompa at the North Pole. I sat in his lap, hoping to look nice and lady-like, just like Nana always told me to do. "What's your name?"

"Brittany," I said anxiously. "I know you're really busy, so I only want one thing for Christmas." I leaned back so our heads were close together, and pointed right at Kurt. "You see that boy with those awesome clothes? He's my boyfriend." Kurt smiled and lifted a hand to wave. "And he's really, really bullied at school—like badly." I tried to get the elf-Santa to understand. "So, for Christmas, I want him to be popular and for everyone to see how unicorn he really is. You can do that, right, Santa?" I added, tongue-in-cheek, like Kurt would say.

He looked at Kurt thoughtfully, making a real show of it. "Of course. I'm on it."

"Thank you very much," I said, hugging him before jumping off his lap and giving Kurt a sweet kiss. "Your turn."

***.***

We were screwed. Completely fucked. I had crossed my legs when I sat on Santa's knee and made some random wish—I think it was to be able to do a duet with Lady Gaga. This was insane. It was just not going to happen. Not the duet, that was an inevitability one day. Being popular was out of the realm of possibility.

But there was a small part of my brain that planned out what I could do to make this wish come true.

Dress "straight". Make a show of Britt and me. Join the football team again. Sing rock or guy songs using my lower register, which would also train my speaking voice to deepen over time.

If I worked hard for the next few weeks, I could be Queen Bee by Christmas break.

I couldn't.

But I could.

I shouldn't.

But I should.

First, I had to try and convince Brittany that I didn't mind the bullying, that being me was better than being popular. If that didn't work, I could attempt plan B, which consisted of burning my accessory scarfs with hair spray as accelerant.

"Uh—Kurt? Your timer is beeping at you," said Finn. It didn't sound like this was the first time he was telling me this.

I set down the segmented box of coloured orbs and went to the kitchen, where Brittany was attempting to figure out how to reset the timer without starting the microwave up. I took over and pressed RESET; the incessant beeping stopped.

Brittany adjusted her white chef's hat, which was something Dad had bought years ago for me. She had set up a chair in front of the oven to watch the tomatoes and cut of rump slowly roast. I took the pair of oven mitts from her and took out the dish, before sautéing the onions and garlic mechanically.

"We should do this at my house," said Brittany in a voice quiet enough that she was almost sure I wouldn't hear her, but loud enough that I just might.

"All right," I said casually. "We can do this with your parents." My heart was beating a mile a minute. Great, another thing to worry about.

Brittany got up from her chair and hugged me from behind, kissing my temple. I tried to smile, but all I could think was _How am I ever going to deal with you?_

"Don't mess around, around hot appliances!" said Finn in an obnoxious voice.

Brittany let go of me and opened the fridge behind me. The garlic and onions browned as she unloaded half the fridge onto the kitchen table.

"Don't," I warned without turning to face her.

A small whine, but Brittany left the glasses of chocolate pudding in the fridge untouched. Now, all I had to do was fend off Finn.

"Don't you dare," I said again.

This time she stomped her foot, but she didn't touch the cookie dough I had left to set.

"Something smells good," said Carole, peaking around the corner. She stood behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Hello, Miss Carole," said Brittany happily.

"It's the beginnings of roasted tomato soup, rump roast with gravy, butter peas and mashed potatoes, and espresso-chocolate pudding and shortbread," I rattled off. I turned the tomatoes and sautéed bits into the food processor, cranking up the power until it ran smooth.

Carole, who was still adjusting to life in the now-cramped house, looked at me a little funnily, as though unsure if I was serious or not.

Believe me, I was.

I think what she was most off-put by, if anything, was the fact I was making it all from scratch by memory. There wasn't a single cookbook or printed out recipe in sight.

But she took it in stride and told me that it looked wonderful and that I had a great little assistant. I think Britt was getting a little tired of being referred to as "little", but she kept smiling.

"Dinner will be served in another half hour," I announced.

I could see Finn perk up, then speed up his tree-decorating. This was a dinner that I knew you could smell from miles away, and I think he was as curious as anyone about my cooking abilities on a meal that was relatively normal.

My gut started to twist once I realised how soon Carole would find out. I didn't know her all too well and while I knew she loved the gay, effeminate Kurt, the one that had taken her shopping and gave her cooking tips on a daily basis, I didn't know how she would adjust to the Kurt who had a girlfriend.

And having her accept me was an even greater concern than Finn accepting me. Finn was just a teenage boy, prone to mood swings and the occasional burst of petty cowardice. Carole was my Dad's wife.

I went through the motions of completing and plating dinner, using the clean white china and gleaming silverware, but all moisture leached itself from my mouth and more than once did I have to wipe a plate clean because the hand holding the gravy boat shook too much.

Tonight would solidify my relationship with Brittany even more than anything else I had done. Tell the Glee Club, change my status on Facebook (I had broken down and done it), tell my dad, Blaine, Mr. Schuester—now, this was something different.

This was a Friday Dinner.

I swatted Brittany's hands again, as she tried to dip her finger into the potatoes she had just spent fifteen minutes pummelling. Plates on the table, soft Christmas music from the fireplace channel (currently playing McCartney's _Wonderful Christmastime_), steam rising casually from the dishes remaining in the kitchen, I wondered if I should shout. Dad had this telepathic sense to know when dinner was finished.

And then…

"FINN! MISS CAROLE! MISTER BURT! DINNER!"

… Brittany broke my eardrums.

"There," she said pointedly. "Now, can I taste—"

"No," I said firmly, pulling out her chair.

She looked up at me and whispered, "What's this little white lump that looks like whipped cream but isn't?"

"Crème fraiche," I told her for the fifth time that night.

"Alright, alright, no need to holler," said Carole as she came down the stairs.

Finn dropped under the Christmas tree, muttering to himself, and army-crawled to the wall behind it. Normally, this was a view I could not ignore. Now, I was tempted to call his name again to make him jump and make the tree shake and jangle with the twenty pounds of garland and metal balls. After a few seconds of fumbling, the tree came to life and I watched Brittany's pupils dilate like an addict's, the cheap lights glittering in her eyes.

"You do kinda make a cute couple," said Finn when he caught me staring at her.

Brittany was now investigating the part of the meal she found least interesting: the soup. She dipped her finger in it and explored the tomato-ness of it.

I smiled knowingly, then turned to Finn. "Do you think I should do this with song, like when you told Quinn's parents—?"

Finn blushed deeply. "If you never mention the failure of _Having My Baby_, then you sing whatever the hell you want." I hoped the thinly veiled threat wasn't actually going to be put into action.

"Forget it," I muttered, as Dad and Carole took their seats at the head and foot of the glossy table.

Soup passed without incident. Chatter about sport and the day's news filtered in and out, as well as the occasional compliment to the chef and assistant. Brittany corrected Finn: she was the _sous chef._ It was then that Carole started to take a bigger interest in Brittany, who had before been quietly listening, asking her about Glee and her dancing at Sectionals, her friends and how school was. Motherly topics.

The most interesting thing that happened during the main was Finn nearly toppling the gravy boat to the floor and Brittany attempting to clean the flakes of black pepper from her beans, mistaking them for dirt.

I was dishing out the biscuits, attempting to get them to lean against each other and balance while I carried them the six feet to the table. It was proving difficult, even with the pudding acting as a solidifying cement. The cookies crumbled or bent at odd angles—it was a mess.

As I was adjusting to these newly sprouting grey hairs, Brittany was regaling the household with a tale of how I had sung _I Am What I Am_ for the Club, obviously leaving out the occasion's closing song, and the entire auditorium was silent—which you didn't understand without hearing what the closing song was.

However, Dad and Finn knew it. So it was funny.

Carole was just confused.

"—and, since I was watching the guys instead of Kurt, I could see all their jaws slowly drop at the same time, like it was planned. And there was just this wide-open hole there for flies to fly in!" said Brittany earnestly.

Finn snorted as he remembered, bowing his head in either shame or laughter. Simultaneously, I felt proud we had reached the stage where the memory was funny rather than awkward and embarrassing, but I also felt my ears burn with a mix of humiliation and laughing-at-yourself pity.

Carole asked tentatively if the Club hadn't known about my "sexuality", using the word that no one under thirty (except maybe I) used. It was the worst question she could have asked and I interceded quickly.

"Dessert is served," I said with a flourish, abandoning my effort of cookie-leaning.

"Wow, Kurt, that looks delicious," said Carole, still looking at Brittany, who was chewing the straw sticking out of her drink thoughtfully.

Finn and Dad were looking at me, slightly alarmed; Finn more than Dad, though.

"Chocolatey," added Brittany approvingly. "Well, the Club didn't know, technically."

"Some of us had figured out," said Finn, grabbing a biscuit and sticking it in his mouth, as though it could shut up Brittany. I wished it could've. Carole had to know, but it was the telling that gave me temporary heart attacks.

I sat beside Brittany again and prayed it would be over with quickly. Ripping off a Band Aid. She turned her head slightly and shifted her posture; I knew she was kicking Finn, playing footsie to tease him.

"_You_ didn't, even with me coming over," she said tauntingly.

Dad looked at his new wife carefully. "Pardon?" asked Carole.

I was starting to wish I had sung that song. But _I Honestly Love You_ really didn't fit in with the circumstances.

I looked at Dad, silently swearing. We had discussed this and agreed to do it with the big Weekly Talk, when he took a brandy and I fixed coffee, and went to the living room to talk about our week. This was the time in the Hummel house where announcements were made.

But, of course, we had neglected to mention it to Britts.

"Oh, he was telling everyone that I was his girlfriend."

And it was out.

Carole's reaction was what I had associated with "typical": eyes popping a little too much, body frozen (spoon half-way to her mouth), and the gears in her head desperately turning, attempting to find a way that this made sense.

"Mom?" asked Finn gently. "You okay?"

Carole nodded, her ginger bob shaking with her. She had apparently found an explanation that made sense and I could already tell what it was. Brittany was a little dim and _girlfriend_ meant _best friend who was a girl_.

Brittany understood her mistake as soon as it had been made. She looked at me pleadingly and I whispered niceties to her, putting my hand on her leg until her panicked look started to dissipate.

Carole then noticed how I was with Brittany, my physical closeness, how my chair was much closer than needed, my hand leaving the table, my lips to her ear, and my familiar expression of softness (also known as "googly eyes").

And she thought that just maybe _girlfriend_ meant _girlfriend_.

Carole made no other comment and with every passing blessing of silence, I felt myself relax. Conversation gradually picked back up with Finn asking the (very) stupid question if the pudding was from a package or box. I could barely dignify that question with an answer.

When the Weekly Talk came around, the table's occupants moved ten feet over and basked in the glow of artificial Christmas lights and the fireplace channel. This night, I had made coffee for Carole and myself and hot chocolate for Finn and Brittany. Finn didn't enjoy coffee—the freak.

Finn and Carole had already had several Talks, so Carole started to go on about the issues in the Giant Tiger she worked at. Nothing as large as laying people off, just payment "problems". This house, even with my fashion habits, Dad's BMW M3 and my Escalade, had well enough money to stay on top of things. We know Carole wanted to do her bit, but even if we were to move again, her working wasn't absolutely necessary unless we had our eye on a million-dollar showhome.

Brittany, as she had for most of the night, sat calmly beside me, her lips fastened on her drink and her eyes wide as she stared at the Christmas tree. The night marched on and soon enough, hot chocolate finished and her insides warmed to contentment, Brittany laid her head on my shoulder. I changed my position and wrapped an arm around her. Finn made a face between _aw_ and _ugh_.

When Finn and Dad started to discuss sport, I knew Carole was going to take more interest in Brittany, as her son's fascination passed her by. She sat on my other side and asked the fatal question. "Is she really your girlfriend?"

I nodded. "My sexuality has been a recent revelation." I waited a moment and when I started to hear the scores of the previous night's game, I continued. "Are you all right with that?"

Carole seemed almost shocked I would think she wasn't. "What? What would be wrong with that?"

"People haven't been completely welcoming to this notion," I said, trying not to sound too grim. Not for the first time, I was thankful Dad and Carole didn't have Facebook.

Carole's expression changed to a mask of helpless pity, something people often wore when talking to me about my orientation. Except now, it was all off. A guy bullied because he had a girlfriend? Please.

"You're happy," she said.

It didn't sound like a question but I said yes anyways.

***.***

I knew Kurt had a girlfriend—I was one of the first people he entrusted with it—and while he wasn't having problems with himself anymore, the remainder of the school wasn't enjoying its gay mascot "switching teams". So, it was stupid of me to keep flirting with him. I _think_ it was flirting, at least. I tried to convey my interest, make it known that I was an open option, nevermind Jeremiah.

Kurt was happy with a girl. He had a stable, loving relationship going on, and he was the type of guy that coveted that.

I wasn't trying to "make him" gay or anything. If he liked girls and guys, so be it, but that didn't knock me out of the ballpark.

Brittany was absolutely lovely, but I wasn't going to stop being friends (or being flirts) with Kurt because of his girlfriend. Non-single guys can flirt with single guys, can't they? Flirting isn't cheating. And besides, he flirted back.

So that was why, on a day McKinley had inservice, I asked Kurt to drive up to Dalton and why he was standing in the empty common room wearing a VISITOR tag on his tailored midnight coat. Snow dusted his wavy, refusing-to-move brown hair and was stuck all the way up to his knees.

"Hey, I have a small request to make," I asked, trying not to sound too enthusiastic as I dropped my study material.

Kurt smiled and rubbed his hands together to warm them. "I figured that one out."

"I need you to sing with me," I admitted.

Kurt brightened up and sat opposite me, his slim boots squeaking all the way. "Oh?"

"Rehearse," I corrected smoothly. "I've got a gig singing _Baby, It's Cold Outside_ in the King's Island Christmas Spectacular."

Kurt took off his coat and crossed his legs. "Ah. A personal favourite." He nodded, looking around the well decorated, private school space. "Too bad they'd never let us sing it together," he added, his voice a little deeper, a little faster and he gave me that look that sped up my heart.

I didn't think I was imagining things, because when I raised an eyebrow questioningly, he hurriedly added, "I mean, as two male artists."

"Mmm, hmm. So you're going to help me out here?"

"It wasn't too far out of my way," he said in his high, soft voice. It betrayed his nerves.

"Very well, then," I said, turning back to my CD player.

What happened then was one of our finer sessions. When we had hung out or jokingly sung together, I could always feel that spark between us, before the veil of reality—the reality where we lived on opposite ends of town and he had a girlfriend—returned and the moment was gone. This time, for a whole three minutes, I had felt that flirty, playful connection the whole time. The thing that made me think that just maybe, Kurt felt a little something, too.

Obviously, Kurt sang the girl's part and while we had made a brilliant vocal match-up, I think if Wes or David came to look for me, even they wouldn't deny the chemistry. I had trouble staying in key, remembering lyrics to the Christmastime mall classic and maintaining the charm, mostly because Kurt was distracting me, especially when he went down—

His voice! His voice _went down._ It dipped to the lower notes that you didn't expect from him and that little flair made me loose my breath.

We ended up on the burnished button-leather couch, sitting much closer than casual friends, blushing and avoiding each other's eye. I was the one who had to get up. If not, I didn't think Kurt ever would.

"One thing's for sure, you are much better than that girl's going to be," I said confidentially, as the mixed CD flipped onward to other Christmas mall blasters.

Colour rose high in Kurt's cheeks and I could see his train of thought crash and burn.

I think that was when I knew our relationship had switched from flirting friends to something stronger. This was more than I had anticipated. This was more like pursuing, rather than feeding my pipedream and making my heart flutter with the guy I was crushing on. Even my feelings had developed more from a "teenage girl and boyband" crush (admiring from afar, flirting and doing what I can while I can, with a vaguely desperate air) to a place where we were equals in the relationship game.

And I hated that I couldn't summon any guilt for what I was doing.

***.***

"So, are you coming over tonight? Mom and Daddy said you could come right after school," I said to Kurt.

The lunchroom wasn't feeling very friendly to Kurt, so we had been hanging out around back under the overhang of the roof. It was pretty cold, but we had winter clothes and no one said anything mean to us out there. I had switched my Cheerio skirt to pants a few weeks ago; it was just way too cold, and the steel seats burned my legs like fire. But the shining icicles from above were worth the cold; dangling from high up, they were tasty and salty when you licked them.

Kurt thought about, turning his coffee in his hands fast. "I think I should."

"That means yes?"

Kurt nodded and I kissed him right on the mouth. "Oh, and don't worry about Ronnie. She's my little sister and she's _really_ mean, she doesn't like any of my boyfriends."

Kurt laughed. "How old is she?"

"Seven."

He shook his head like he just couldn't believe me. "Wonderful." He must've seen how I was looking at him. "I don't like little kids."

I put my lips right up next to his ear and whispered, "I don't either." I just remembered something. "Oh!" He jumped; I guess I was still too close to his ear. "My mom says you can't cook tonight."

I swore he looked disappointed.

***.***

Kids and cats—this was going to be one hell of a night.

And I didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified when Brittany said that I couldn't go home and change first, before going to have dinner with her family. However, I _did_ know to be terrified when she took my car keys and drove _my_ Escalade. I was plastered to my seat the entire ride.

"I wish you could see it at night," said Brittany woefully, as she turned onto her street.

"Holy sh—"

"Are you going to sing _Holy Night_? I love that song," said Brittany eagerly.

Even without the unusual colouring of the powder blue house, I would know which one belonged to Brittany. Even in the daylight, miles upon miles of Christmas lights were visible—strung on the evergreen in the front yard, the bushes, several lines around the eavesdrops, the chimney poking out the side, and winding around the railings. There were also Christmas critters (I think they were meant to be elves) in the bushes and a few stone elf ornaments that had been painted haphazardly by someone with questionable artistic skills. A massive duo of reindeer were beside the tree, hooked in a loving embrace.

Brittany slowed down from the lead-foot pace and edged into the drive cautiously, peering through the mirrors, around the windows. "Am I going to hit any elves?" she said anxiously. "You know, they come alive when no one's looking."

"You're fine," I said, my mouth drying. The elves were starting to freak me out, even without Brittany's pronouncement.

She pulled me up to the front door and stopped in front of the door. I knew what she was thinking: this was where we had had our first kiss. Her blond pigtails bounced happily before opening the door and yelling, "Mom!"

A very pretty dark-haired woman appeared around the corner of the kitchen. "This must be Kurt." I shook her hand, taking in her mom jeans and nice sweater—not quite brand name cashmere, but something very nice. "Call me Cathrine."

"_Cat_," said Brittany pointedly.

"Pleasure," I said. Brittany wasn't letting go of my hand and I began to fear for its circulation.

"I was just going to get your sister to the Girl Guides' parent meeting," said Cathrine, reaching in the closet for her coat. "I'll be back in about an hour and a half, and Daddy'll be home in another few hours. You kids be good."

Another few minutes and a car parked on the road drove off with Cathrine inside.

"So that was Mom," said Brittany efficiently, dropping her Cheerio jacket on the floor and kicking her shoes at the wall. "Dad's still at the store. He's an artist; makes stuff from other stuff."

"Like pottery," I asked, eyeing the multi-coloured pots and vases that decorated most of the rooms. I was reluctant to act as casual as Brittany. But she undid my coat herself, throwing it on a chair, and kneelt down to untie my tight boots. I have to admit, my heart jumped into my throat when she got on her knees.

Brittany nodded and started to talk about all the things her father had made with clay and "that wet stuff", which included some of the elves out front and the pair of reindeer.

She was still talking about her father's job when she led me to her now-familiar bedroom and pushed me into the bed.

***.***

So far, everything was fine. Stupid Ronnie was still at school or her stupid club, so she couldn't barge in and stop us, and Mom and Daddy weren't home.

Kurt and I had reached what he called "a natural stopping point", and were just about to go back into the living room and wait for him to meet and get annoyed by Ronnie. But there was still another Woody Woodpecker cartoon between that and now, so Kurt and I were still laying in my bed—with each other.

"Looking forward to dinner?" I played with the little silver buttons on his shirt.

He shrugged above me. "I am. Nervous but I'm definitely looking forward to this dinner."

I smiled and moved my hand to his silvery belt. "Did I help with that nervousness?"

His breathing got all shallow and thin under me. "Yeah," he said highly. "You did."

And then the worst thing that could have happened, happened. Daddy came home much earlier than normal. The front door jingled when he came in and Daddy's heavy footsteps echoed through the house. "Sweetie? Britt-Britt?"

Kurt had gone totally quiet, and I jumped up to greet Daddy at the door before he could find Kurt. I knew Kurt wouldn't be happy if he met my Daddy with his hair all messed and not presentable.

Daddy grinned when he saw me and swept me into a big hug and kiss, his bristly guy-scruff scratching my cheek. He smelled like chemical paint and dry, flaky clay, and I could see some of the dust still in his beard from the new stuff that had come out of the Portable Hell.

He asked me how my day was and I told him it all went well and that I had brought a special friend home to meet him.

"I saw the car," he said. Just then, Kurt (looking much more presentable) came back from my bedroom, smiling and professional. I think Daddy was surprised because Kurt wasn't nearly as manly-looking as his car. He was plenty man for me, but he was wearing his typical school gear (lime green button shirt, a black bowtie, and a pair of snow-white skinny jeans). I didn't want him to go home and pull some Kurt out of his closet that didn't exist.

"I was just saying that your car is a great piece of machinery," said Daddy, reaching out a hand to shake. "I'm Jake Pierce."

"Kurt Hummel, your daughter's boyfriend." I could see the bottoms of his ears redden when he said that. "Thanks, I used to help my dad work on cars. He owns Hummel Auto."

"I see that place. Just off Richardson and Plymouth?" asked Daddy, leading Kurt into the living room.

And then the most shocking thing happened. Cars, the thing Kurt was so embarrassed to know all about, was what he talked to Daddy about all night. Even when Ronnie came home and was all loud and obnoxious, Kurt and Daddy were in the Bear's Den (because it had a whole bear family on the coffee table), talking about some Italian thing—I think they were fast cars that could fly to the moon.

Ronnie burst in, her sash in her hand, and took one look at Kurt and said, "Who the hell are you?" worse than Santana ever could.

"That's not very nice, Veronica," said Daddy, frowning that frown that _was to be obeyed._ Plus, he used her long name.

Ronnie glared at Kurt, then looked at me and said a quick sorry. When she left, I knew she was going to torture Charity and Lord Tubbington with snacks they didn't want to eat and cuddling that would squish them.

So, I did the only thing a cat-loving older sister could do.

I yelled after her, "DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH MY CATS, VERONICA M. PIERCE!"

***.***

I let out a little squeal when Brittany screamed at her sister, but it seemed to be a regular occurrence, because when Cathrine came in, rosy-cheeked and smiling, she barely looked apologetic.

"Well, Kurt, I think you pass the biggest test," said Jake. When I stared at him, he continued. "You managed to stay together longer than a week."

I laughed weakly, remembering the parade of boyfriends that rotated through the Cheerios. Jake whacked me on the shoulder, not unlike many men I had known, and said that he was going to change out of his shop gear.

I went into the kitchen and saw Cathrine rummaging around in her cupboards, with what appeared to be the ingredients for a rack of lamb with some kind of spiced rub sitting on the counters. I didn't know how many opportunities like this I would have, so I took this first available one.

"Brittany still believes in Santa Claus," I said firmly.

Cathrine banged her head when she came up, but just looked at me sadly. "I'm sorry," she said heavily. "However, if you can handle Brittany's eccentricities on a daily basis, this should be simple."

"She's seventeen and has got Christmas decorations that cost more than the average car," I said flatly, pointing to the ginormous light-up tree with memorabilia and about ninety pounds of glamorous ornaments in the living room. The front and back spoke for themselves. The miniature forest of evergreens looked like something out of Oz. And every indoor surface had some kind of Christmas reference that was an iffy cross between tacky and sweet.

"You might have realised that Brittany isn't exactly normal," said Cathrine, getting huffy. "She isn't just slow, she has a mild form of autism we were scared would develop into something stronger." A felt ice trickle down my spine. "But it hasn't and she has the strength to make herself believe something that isn't real, to make her world special and meaningful."

I once had a friend when I was little who was autistic, and his parents always talked about him like this. Like he was part of a different world that he made his own with his beliefs that he could only barely give voice to.

It threw me off-guard to have someone talk about Britts like this.

"She asked for something at a Santa's grotto that can't come true," I said. When her mother gave me the look, I grudgingly finished. "She wants me to stop being bullied for my sexuality—_bi_sexuality. To be popular. And that cannot happen. It's an impossibility."

Cathrine didn't say anything for a long time. So long that I thought she had forgotten about me, but at last she said, "All right. I understand if she must know—the day will come soon, anyways—but I'd like you to avoid telling her if it's possible. To keep the world magical."

It was almost the same thing I had said in Glee Club.

After that, I was stunned at how normal dinner was. The feline beasts sat on a corner of the table, eyeing the platter of meat hungrily, being slowly stroked by Brittany; the family style supper was self-serve and delicious aside for some slightly overcooked carrots. I was actually frightened for my jeans during the cheesecake. Her parents seemed to like me well enough and Jake liked to talk cars with me, although he was slightly put out that I didn't watch sports. Hell, I barely knew enough to nod along and pretend I knew. Ronnie was throwing me the evil eye, but I think that was more to do with the fact that I was Brittany's boyfriend than actually disliking me. Sibling enemies—better than sibling allies. My cousins were proof of that.

After coffee/hot cocoa, I was being waved on my way by an enthusiastic Brittany, a falsely smiling Ronnie, a fond Jake and it appeared Cathrine was trying to warn me. I would do my damndest to make sure Brittany didn't know the Santa truth, but I didn't know how long I could hold out.

When I got home, my fingers were drawn to the stove. I twiddled the dials and filled a saucepan with milk and various natural sweeteners and spices. My head spinning with stress, I changed into pyjamas and poured the now warm and spiced milk into mugs and I headed upstairs.

I was initially headed for Dad—my default go-to for problems at school—but Finn knew Brittany better and would have more input. Besides, I wasn't sure if I was ready to go to Dad with girl issues. It was fairly late, but both their lights were still on, shining under the closed doors. The only time I had made this balancing trip was for a lady chat, a gossip of friends and enemies, a bonding experience that although Finn protested, I knew he enjoyed.

I couldn't believe I was going to Finn for help, no matter how much sense it made.

I pushed open the door. "Finn, do you have any clue what I could do about Brittany's wish for Santa?" I asked hesitantly.

As soon as I spoke, he jumped like I had electrocuted him with a live wire and hastily stuffed his reading material under his covers. Scarred. For. Life.

"Are you hearing yourself, dude?" His voice was out of breath and a little deeper than normal. His bedside lamp highlighted the pallor of his face.

"Knock, knock," I said, tapping the doorframe with the mugs, trying to force myself from blushing.

"I think you should help her grow up," said Finn seriously. Then, he played with the edges of his blankets, his feet bouncing with anticipation of my leaving. "You know, this isn't the _best_ time."

I was fully aware of what he was doing before I had opened his door, and I wasn't going to be able to go to sleep next door if I knew he would continue. My only hope to be able to face Finn in the morning was to stay long enough that simple time would dissipate his… urges.

So, against my better judgement, I crossed the room and sat on the end of his bed, the ends of my blue rope catching on his bedframe. Finn accepted the milk and sat up, pulling a pillow into his lap and leaning over it.

I pretended to ignore the implication.

I needed serious help.

"I talked to Brittany's parents…" And I told him everything Cathrine had said, leaving out the part of autism; Finn was hardly school gossip, but he didn't need to know that.

"What the hell am I supposed to do about my popularity? Finn!"

Finn was staring into space absently. He jumped back to reality and gave me a pitying look. "I don't know, dude." Honestly, I shouldn't have expected anything more. "I—Look, I don't think you should change who you are and stuff, but it would be easier if you just tried to blend in," Finn muttered quickly.

I knew I was meant to be angry, but I couldn't summon the strength. It would be an easier life to live, but I'd be fabricating every minute of it because I couldn't stand to be myself. No matter how much Brittany wanted it, I couldn't force myself into that.

Finn just misunderstood me.

He had a point, I just couldn't do it. I think I was scared of what might change inside me if I went through with Plan Popular.

Finn didn't have anything more to say on the subject, so I changed topic quickly and offered my advice with his own girl problems and, soon enough, Finn's goldfish memory took over and the atmosphere returned to normal.

I left, faking my smile as I took his empty glass back downstairs, when he thanked me in what he would call a "mind blown" voice. But then his tone changed.

"Kurt. I'm—I'm really sorry I don't know what to do. If I were you, I'd give being popular a shot, but I'm not you so I can't tell all the little things that might change your decision—"

"Finn, it's okay. Goodnight."

"'Night."

Why on earth did he have to say that?

***.***

Once more on Monday, I found myself at the heart of school gossip and now it seemed the hivemind of the student body had made their decision about what to do about me. My Facebook page trashed and spammed with mocking, scornful comments, my gleaming car slushied with parking lot slush and marked-up with Sharpie, and my face already smacked twice today with the burning ice, I returned from lunch with a dizzying, distinct sense of not belonging.

At least during lunch I had my girlfriend.

I turned heads when I walked down the hall with Brittany, going to the choir room. I was so flamboyant with our false relationship the year before, and everyone was so secure that I was the School Gay, that this was the juiciest gossip of the season.

I just wished the school was bigger, so it was possible to "blend in". I had dressed down in a tailored jacket and jeans tucked into my boots, but I think I was someone who couldn't be ignored. And now with Britts, avoiding bullies was becoming increasingly difficult.

I made it to the choir room without incident and stared at the mess of green twigs and shredded red cotton. Mike was sweeping up bits and pieces of glass, and Sam wore gloves while wrapping up the long chain of broken Christmas lights. It took a few minutes to make the connection between the stump of a log and the massive Christmas tree.

Everyone sat around, looking miserable. The girls contemplated something, while holding silvery scissors close to their scalps, and Finn and the boys were staring mournfully at their wrists.

"What's going on?"

I was waved over by Mercedes, who thankfully didn't have scissors. My question was soon answered when Mr. Schue came in. The girls were chopping their hair and the boys selling their watches to pay for gifts for the homeless children. I slinked lower in my seat. With all the drama in my life, I had nearly forgotten about the staff's Secret Santa dilemma and Finn's overwhelming need to give back.

I wasn't all that into Christmas, mostly because I wasn't a big fan of Christ, but even the commercial holiday was only good for experimenting in the kitchen with pumpkin pie and having an excuse for shopping. Christmas spirit wasn't high on my list of priorities.

And with Mr. Schuester's speech on magic, he started organising us into a Dr. Seuss choir, setting up a carolling number for us to sing to the staff—who were less likely to throw stuff at us.

Brittany looked at me in a certain way that made my heart jump into my throat. I knew she was thinking about her Christmas wish.

"_Fahoo, forus, dahoo, dorus... Welcome Christmas…"_

***.***

We were _supposed_ to play Singstar—which I really liked—but when Kurt got me downstairs, he just set me down and sat beside me, all seriously.

His voice was a little rough and cracked, but instead of it being awesome and sexy, it just made me hurt because he looked so sad. "Brittany, I don't want your Christmas wish to come true."

I tried to think before I spoke, because that's what Nana tells me to do, and I did it now. There was no reason I could think of why he didn't want to be popular. "Why? People could finally see you the way I do." I couldn't find the right words and things got a bit jumbled in my head.

"Because for them to like me, they'd have to get over my—my dolphin-ness." He waved at his awesome clothes. "And then, they'd have to accept you and that's only gonna happen in time. And that's never going to happen, so _I'd_ have to change. I'd have to act so that they'd like me, and I don't want to do that. That's not me."

I started to get frustrated with Kurt and forgot completely about Singstar. "Why not? I see how sad you get, like, when you think you're worthless, like you're less than you really are. And that's because of those stupidheads, and those idiots just need to see you for you and all that will stop."

Kurt looked even sadder than ever, but he nodded and smiled a little, a little, tiny wet spot on the corner of his eye getting bigger and bigger until it dripped and he wiped it away. He held my hand with both of his. "Oh, Brittany. You are so, _so_ right, you have no idea. It's just that that's not going to happen. People are stupid and people are prejudiced and ignorant and mean. And not even Santa can change that."

I sat back and didn't look at him—I couldn't. My throat started to get tight and my head, right behind my eyes, it started to burn and I blinked again and again.

"Everyone knows that," he said quietly. He sniffed some tears back into his head. "We've had those lectures on bullying and shit, but I never wanted you to realise that it was true." Kurt pulled me into a hug and kissed my hair.

"It's not fair that you get slushied and I get party invitations." My voice got high and squeaky. "It's just not fair!"

Kurt sounded watery, like he was fighting back tears. "Believe me. I know."

* * *

><p><strong>I've decided that I'm going to continue this as long as humanly possible (ie. until Kurt graduates). But the updates will be sporadic, because I was just given my final project in English and I'm reading 4 books for the class right now. So... Yeah, I'll write when I can, but don't expect a weekly update until the summer-then you might get two a week. :D<br>**


	11. Thriller Night

**Disclaimer**: Why the hell does Glee get good just before all my favourite characters graduate? I wish it was mine just so I could kill the writers for the fuck up of season three. -.-

**This is my adaption of the episode s02e11: The Sue Sylvester Shuffle.  
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**Please, don't skewer me. I'm trying to stick to canon and in canon Brittany was cheating on Artie with Santana. Other than that, enjoy.  
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* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

Things weren't improving and I wasn't sure when or if they would. Most nights I was busy deleting comments from Facebook; strangers called my house more frequently, calls that I had to hang up on before the anonymous coward could say another word; and I had to nearly double the time I spent erasing slushie damage from my clothes. The maintenance of my relationship with Brittany had almost tripled the stress and workload of my day-to-day life.

But the winter vacation was just about to start, and that was bound to be interesting. The previous year, I had spent it watching reruns of _Friends_ and _Project Runway_ with Mercedes, eating popcorn and flipping through my slightly out of date mags. Now, it was bound to be a three-week oasis away from the disaster of my school. My social life and rep could go and die for all I could care, and I could work on the part of the relationship that I liked: the part that actually included Britts.

She never called and rarely texted to announce her arrival, so when I heard a familiar voice sing:

_"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Duh duh-duh-duh duh-duh."_

I knew that this was my warning, and sure enough the doorbell rang soon after. "I'll get it!" I yelled, taking the stairs three at a time.

Finn had parked himself in front of the TV in the living room, with some foreign sports game playing. We were lazing around today while Dad and Carole were at work. Finn smirked at my enthusiasm until I felt my ears burn. He turned the volume down on the game so he could listen.

I threw open the door and was nearly barrelled over by a strawberry-scented, snowflake-encrusted Brittany. Her woollen cat hat with strings swayed with her hair, and her waterproof, wind-resistant, industrial-strength parka was glow-in-the-dark, lime-green with fluffy white fur that framed her head like a mane. Her jeans tucked into shop-type black boots that reached almost to her knees.

There was also a string held in her purple mitten, which lead to a firetruck-red toboggan. Strips of painted wood that curled upwards at the front. Golden designs were painted at the helm, leaves and abstract spirals.

"It's snowing!" proclaimed Brittany, lifting her hands in jubilation. And right then, I remembered why all the stress and humiliation was worth it. "And it's real snow—like sticky, snowman snow—like cover-the-hills-and-go-wee! snow. Not like before, when it was like the clouds were raining grey slushies."

Well, she _was_ right.

Finn emitted a sound that was between a giggle and a snort.

It was the type of day that no one would _dream_ of going tobogganing, not to mention that I probably hadn't gone to the hills since I was seven. The sky was a threatening navy-grey and poured snow in buckets. It was the day before people went tobogganing—that was why Brittany wanted to today. Less competition, she said.

I invited her in, but she preferred to stay on the steps and not take off her heavy clothes.

Finn turned the game back up. "So—going tobogganing, are we?" I nodded sharply. "_You_?"

It was all in jest, but I literally felt my ego bruising. "MmmHmm."

I looked mournfully at my six-button, black wool blend coat, already anticipating the caked snow and slick, stick-on ice that would melt into the fibres, dulling the sharp colour.

"Have fun," called Fin when I slammed the door behind me.

***.***

Wet, sloppy snow and sharp, biting, whippy flakes assaulted me and Kurt when we went down the hills. Soon, our faces were burning with ice and were bright red. I liked seeing Kurt's hair out of place and I knew he was happiest when it was, when he was so busy having fun that he forgot what he looked like. And his eyes sparkled like the fields of snows.

It was hard work to pull it up the hill, because it was so steep, but it made the rides so fast. And I liked having to hold onto Kurt's waist so tight. We were so lucky that it wasn't popsicle cold, like when your nose hairs freeze shut.

After a ton of rides up and down, I ran and dove into a snow dune near the picnic table, flattening a Brittany-shaped hole in it. Kurt laughed breathlessly behind me before trying to make a snow chair to sit in. I rolled over and felt the snow slink into my boots. I tried to sit up and had to shake the snow from my face. As soon as I did, Kurt doubled over laughing. And it wasn't his normal, confident, calculated laugh. It was mindless and even though I felt the snow slip into me and melt into my bones, this happy light sprung in me.

"God, I love you," he said, and I knew he wasn't thinking. That was the best part, though.

I reached for the closest part of him, which was his leg, and patted it. "Love you, too," I murmured. I think I was having a sugar crash. I was dazed and really happy and suddenly tired.

"Can't you come and lay down?" I asked, flopping back in the snow. "It's not really cold."

He knelt down. "I'm okay where I am."

Using what energy I had, I threw myself on him, but he stayed up and I just ended up sitting on his lap. The sudden shock of me getting so close knocked him off balance and he got lost in a puffy cloud of powdery snow.

I hugged him and kissed his neck before kissing his lips. Every second that I stayed on top of him, his arms tightened around me and pulled me as close as our winter stuff would allow.

He really was my favourite part of my day.

***.***

Giving myself a peptalk in front of the mirror was just the latest in a very long line of failed attempts to go to school happy. I had resigned myself to the fact that any positive feelings would be trumped eventually by some, as Brittany said, supidhead. Down in the dumps as I was, all I could see was physical flaws as I tried to psych myself up. My unsymmetrical hairline, my too-long neck, my uneven eyes—seriously, my left eyebrow was, like, an inch higher than my right one… and the hair grew in a totally different direction than it was growing yesterday. And my fucking tie was off-centre.

This was depressing me more than usually. I nearly ripped the tie from my neck. I rinsed the toothpaste scum from my mouth and braced myself like a soldier priming himself for war.

This shirt looked much better without a tie anyways.

Too bad my consideration for fashion was missed on the football thugs. They had almost a whole month to plan out—or as much as these cavemen could—a triple-strike on the Glee Club. Artie—cornered inside the side-door hallway. Tina—trapped in the abandoned east corridor. And me—in an almost ironic way, beside the Dumpster that I used to be chucked in daily.

Four big—and I mean massive—lunatics in lettermen got to me on all sides, almost like it was choreographed. Each of them had a Triple Gulp, which was nearly a liter of fluid and cost four dollars. Orange. My coat, even though the snowdays with Brittany had dulled the colour, was still black and would be easy to wash out. Good. I relaxed a margin. My hair was fixable.

Snow was blown around our ankles and I cursed myself for not running when I saw the jacket, nevermind that none of them were Karofsky. Hands clutched the Gulps until the plastic cups bent around their grip. They advanced; I backed up. There was little to no reasoning to be done with them. Soon, I would feel the inevitable _crunch-slam_ of icy revenge and be able to shake it off.

The one that was directly in front of me said four words that made me groan: "Take off your coat."

I was wearing a long white sweater under this—I had decided it was safe, since I was taking all my precautions. So much for preparation.

I'm not a wuss; I just favoured a slushie shower over a physical confrontation. So, I removed my coat and folded it over the guardrail by the parking lot.

"Let's get this over quickly, gentlemen," I said, only half-sarcastically. I put my arms out and held my ground. I was _determined_ to—

"ARRRGGGGHHH! SON OF A BITCH!"

I had forgotten how much it _burned_. This was Hell in a cup. I felt like I was drowning in a sugary, snowy, cruel mayhem. Nevermind the initial _woosh_ of the air getting forced from your lungs by the shock and coldness; I didn't care about the temporary feeling of being unable to breathe with it shooting up your nose and coughing on it; shit if I gave a damn about the walk of shame to the bathroom and the forthcoming cleaning-up and change of clothes I needed to wear and the oozing, slipping, slopping feeling of it tracing a path down my spine and inching under my slacks.

I wasn't looking forward to confronting Brittany, looking like a rat drowned in orange icees.

I doubled over, clawing the ice from my eyes, and dropping my bag in the process. The biggest guy took advantage of this position, pushed me back to the Dumpster and flipped me in.

I groaned vaguely, holding my head and gently probing the place where my skull had slammed into the back of the navy metal box. I had always hated this treatment. There weren't just cardboard boxes and squishy lunches in here; it was a lot of paper, which was good, but also held hard things, metal things, sharp things and things that weaseled themselves into knocking on your spinal chord or stabbing your neck.

I sat up and a length of scrap wood from woodshop pushed harder into my tailbone, forcing me to stumble to a stand. I could feel a brainfreeze settle in and decided to get to a washroom before it seriously started to hurt.

Typically, my post-slushie routine took ten to fifteen minutes, but not when I was soaking head-to-toe with slush. So, I was still bent over the sink, running a comb violently though my hair with no shirt on and the bathroom door wedged shut with a broom, when the bell rang for first period. The sink was splattered with melting orange ice crystals and my face was sticky with sugar syrup; the hand dryer was working on my shirt and another on my sweater.

Looking into my pathetic face, I shook the comb free of drips and considered myself. Hair stringy and hanging down my nose, face flush with blood flow from the position I was in and flat out shame, knuckles white on the comb and there was something wrong with my eyes, something that said that I was more miserable and tired than I could think.

I pushed that away and got down to the job at hand. Namely, making myself presentable once again.

***.***

Santana and me were sitting in the Glee class, all excited for Regionals, even though we were best friends again and there were sweet lady kisses to spare, especially during the magical, love-ical Christmas break—besides, you were supposed to spend time with the people you loved.

Artie had rolled in a few minutes ago and had totally killed off our buzz. He was comforted by Quinn and getting a pick-up talk by Sam to make him feel loads better. It wasn't helping. He was dripping red slushies wherever he rolled and his glasses were speckled, his eyes big like Lord Tubbington. I felt bad for him, because that was a Superslushie attack.

The guys started to get angry, like fighting angry, and shouted without any real hope at each other that this shouldn't happen and that these guys deserved a real hard fight. Santana had talked the guys out of charging out of the Glee room and finding the football guys.

Then Tina had come in, dripping blue, but with all her black clothes, you could only see it on her hair and skin. She spent her time putting her funky punky make-up back on beside Mike, who kissed her and told her it was just some morons. Her make-up kept running because she was crying and she had to redo it again and again. Mercedes kept patting her back and pinning her hair back up.

Now the other boys were getting _really _pissed off and Finn was trying to strategize, make up a plan where they could attack the other stupid guys. Puck thought they should just meet them after practise and beat them up to teach them a lesson.

The nice, fun mood had melted like an icecube and now everyone was nervous and angry and upset in one way or another. But Santana kept on talking about Gaga's new song, _The Edge of Glory_, which she wanted to sing at Regionals, since she had sung _Valerie _at Sectionals. She thought she would smash it, and I had to agree. She was Superwoman.

"—and there's a killer beat for you to dance to and you could adlib, so it'd be like a duet." She sounded so pleased with herself. "We could showcase your rhythm and beat just like before. It would be so aweso—oh-oh-oh, what happened here? _Another one?"_

Kurt slunked into class and any idiot could see something was wrong. I had seen him after a "slushie blitz-attack" and knew that he had gotten all prepped and ready in the washrooms afterwards, so, it was hard to see the little things. His big, bright red eyes; his uneven, un-perfect wet hair; his shiny, sticky face; and his dull orange and white sweater, which I knew was supposed to be just white.

I ran to hug him, and got only a half, fake one-armed hug back. I kissed him and said to the others, "Orange slushie." He sat down on my other side and stayed real quiet, but I knew I was helping him by sitting next to him; when he was sad, he liked the quiet, but liked me even more.

"Okay, Finn, now you can go." It was Santana and before Kurt could even ask "Where are they going?" Puck gave out an encouraging war-cry of "We're gonna go all Thunderbird on their asses!" when they marched to the door.

I kissed Kurt again and held his hand, but then the rest of the football team came in and there was a manly man standoff with mean insults and threats and snarling. The team even still had the slushie cups. I wanted to join them but Kurt gave me a look that said _You are staying_, so I stayed.

The only thing that stopped the guys from jumping on each other (in a fighting way, not in a dolphin way) was Coach Beiste, and she told everyone to sit down. They sat down on the other side of the room and Mr. Schuester sounded determined and kind of angry when he said, "New Directions, let's give a warm welcome to the newest members of Glee Club."

He almost made everyone go pirate. I knew I wanted to start a mutiny and by the noise everyone was making, I was sure they'd all be on my side. Kurt and the guys (and I'm sure Artie would have if he could) all stood up and shouted screechy things, like this was never going to happen and that they were cray-cray.

I agreed.

And the football hardheads started to go Santana ghetto, and shouting and yelling. Mr. Schue tried to calm us all down but it wasn't working.

Finn finally stood up and yelled over everyone else. "Are you serious? These are the guys who nearly drowned Artie, Tina and Kurt in slushies!"

Everyone stopped for a moment, and then Rachel leaned forward and bitched. "And there's no way that I'm sharing the choir room with a _known homophobe."_

And then everyone went crazy again.

Kurt, even though he was mad, like steam-out-of-your-ears mad, looked over at Karofsky and he was really low in his seat, his head at the same height as the chair. I asked Kurt what homophobe meant and he whispered that it was someone who hated dolphins. Who could hate dolphins? They were so adorable.

Mr. Schuester still couldn't calm us all down. He was saying, "I walked to Coach Beiste about it, and she and I both agreed that the kind of bullying that David does is born of ignorance."

"It isn't, though," I said, frowning. Kurt patted my knee and Mr. Schue kept going.

"Having him in here, as difficult as it may be for us, is an opportunity to show him and the rest of the guys that being in Glee Club is kind of cool—find some common ground."

He was looking at a ton of upset, unbelieving pirates who were planning that mutiny. There was almost one, too, but then Beiste outlined the rules for her team: one week, no exception, even with some big game—right, we were cheering at it—and that there was no real team, that there were two. And then she said something Beistely and no one understood her.

Then the stupid black guy, who was besties with Karofsky, went all Santana and said, "If I have to stay I ain't singing no show tunes. That's the music of my oppressors."

Beside me, Kurt made a "ugh" noise and shook his head. "Have any of you ever heard of Rock of Ages? Next to Normal?" he shouted at him. "The Wall? The Iron Man? We Will Rock You? American Idiot? Rock musicals—they exist."

"Kurt's right," said Rachel, sounding really surprised that Kurt sound smart and mad—because mad people aren't normally smart.

"Do you guys even have any idea what we do in here?" said Finn really loudly from behind us.

"No," said Mr. Schuester sadly. "None of them do. We have to show them. Rachel, Puck, haven't you guys been working on something?"

And then some radio song that I couldn't remember the words of started and Puck played guitar and was all badass. It was funny to watch him psych the others out while singing a love song… oh… Rachel. That's why she was so happy; Finn wasn't very enthusiastic about it.

"I'd like to hear you sing _We Will Rock You_," I said quietly to Kurt, trying to break the tension that had gone up. Finn was like the sun: little anger beams were going to everyone who sat near him.

Kurt half-smiled and said, "Totally not happening," in a voice that I thought meant he kind of _could_.

"Maybe if I can get you to Penny's again…"

"Dontcha _dare_."

Then the song was over and Rachel was done making those faces—it looked like she was having trouble going to the bathroom—everyone clapped for them and the football guys were staring at each other like _Damn, this is normal people music._

Then Karofsky's BFF said, "The girl with the Mohawk had a really nice voice," like he was a judge on American Idol, and Puck snapped. He made a mean face and took his guitar off.

"Funny. Yeah, man. That's good." Maybe I was wrong and Puck took it as a joke. Oh, no, here it is.

Puck charged at the guys with his guitar like a sword. That was like the cue everyone was waiting for and we all went for each other. There was yelling and Santana used her nails like knives, and Rachel was lifted off the ground, and all the guys (even Kurt) were being held back by Beiste. I think they would have all beat up those guys, even if Kurt wouldn't, I definitely would have taken his place.

Why had these nice teachers brought monsters to our home?

***.***

Today was not my day, even more than usual. Football thugs joining my sanctuary, the one place where I felt I could be myself, and still feeling my clothes stick to my skin with the remaining sugar syrup each time I moved, there were few ways that could've made me madder.

I was furious, slamming my locker and ignoring my girlfriend furious. I was also very embarrassed these days, even though I was learning to function again with the staring and mocking. I had been spoiled with Christmas vacation, clearly.

So when I saw Rachel Berry marching up to me confidently, my mood could go nowhere but up. We met in the hall and when I finally read her face, my expectations went south: she was wearing that self-satisfied, almost arrogant, angry expression.

Shit.

Rachel had been very cool to me ever since I had called her out in the choir room for being a spoiled brat. We didn't have those passing, Broadway-themed conversations anymore; we very nearly ignored each other.

This couldn't be anything good.

I smiled tightly. "Morning, Rachel."

"Good morning, Kurt." She didn't sound any happier than me.

About half a minute passed in an awkward silence where we took part in a stare-down, before Rachel said, "Since you seem reluctant to begin this, I shall start. I know you, like others, are threatened by my talent and I know you said everything in anger, that it meant nothing, but that doesn't excuse you from the fact that you said some very hurtful things." She didn't sound very hurt. "Feel free to apologise in any way you want to. The team needs to be stronger if we hope to win Nationals."

I spoke in a carefully measured voice. "I am sorry I hurt you, Rachel, but I won't take back what I said because it was the truth. Was I angry? Yes, but it needed to be said by someone."

Rachel was taken aback. "I—I'm _sorry?"_

I sighed, exasperated. "You are exceptional, Rachel, you really are. But you don't let your talent speak for itself; you make sure everyone knows how good you are before they hear you sing. And, to be very honest, the only reason I had never very actively campaigned for the star role was because there was no one to be my opposite. In competitions, I couldn't duet with anyone. None of the guys wanted to and I didn't have enough vocal or emotional chemistry with any of the girls. Now I have both. And, if I were you, I'd watch my back."

Rachel started to splutter, color rising in her face from the neck of her unicorn sweater. "Brittany isn't a good singer!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Finn? At least Britt can dance."

***.***

"… and then I walked away with as much dignity as I could… As much pride."

I thought about it, scratching Lord Tubbington behind the ears. Charity curled herself on my skirt, putting her face up on my leg. I was lying on a couch, my feet in Kurt's lap, and we were kind of watching TV at my house. Lord Tubbington headbutted me strongly and I groaned as he dug his claws through my shirt into my chest, pinpricking me.

"I don't think I'd be too mad if you started a war, but just remember that Finn's your brother—no matter how bad of a singer he is." I smiled. "I'd like to dance more in competitions and sing some with you. And Tina never does much."

Kurt ran his hand over my leg. "Me too. You and Finn just need some practise, a good teacher."

Then a great idea pulled itself into my head.

"Kurt!" I sat up, Lord Tubbington falling off me with a growl-hiss and Charity sliding off me like a furry slinky.

Kurt screamed, pulling his legs up onto the couch, and I couldn't stop laughing at him. I put my arms around him. "Awww, my cats can't hurt you."

He said something that sounded like "claws", but I just shook my head at his silliness. Cats were awesome. Plus, one day, they were going to rule us all so it was smart to get in good with them while we ruled them.

"But"—I bounced away from him, pulling my ankles together and sitting cross-legged—"you know what happened to me today?"

He smiled, straightening his wrinkle-free shirt. "What?"

"Coach Sue said she wanted to kill me."

"_What?"_

"But then Santana went and tattled to Principal Figgins, so I don't think I'll get fired out of a cannon like Woody Woodpecker."

"_WHAT?"_

"And now all the Cheerios are going to our Regionals when the football team is having their big game, so everyone is doing something awesome that night, and I'm still alive."

"Brittany… go back to the beginning."

"Coach Sue wants to fire me from a cannon, and I don't want to, and Santana told on her, so now I'm not going to burn up. Good, isn't it?"

Kurt sat back, shaking his head and laughing, until I kissed him.

***.***

And now Mr. Schuester was resorting to prison techniques to control us. Good idea, too, since most of us would gladly take sledgehammers to the other if we wouldn't get in trouble. I remembered the Philippine prison, but didn't think there would be any love between Glee Club and the football team. Especially since our link, the Cheerios, were most likely leaving to their Regionals.

Zombie Camp was fun, at least. Grimy, goopy zombie make-up to make us look like we were falling to bits while shambling around stage in a fairly unsynchronised manner. There was only one fight, too.

_Thriller/Heads Will Roll_ was coming together fantastically. Rachel originally had made it herself, with Santana and Artie harmonizing, but then after I looked over it and gave her what I thought was the queen of Looks, she changed it to be four soloists—shockingly, she gave me the _Heads Will Roll_ part with Santana. Plus, Finn was doing the creepy speaking part because he was the only one that the voice changer gear could fit.

We took a short break. The girls were experimenting with different brands of make-up and Brittany had brought out her Magic Markers. I pitied the football guy who was docilely sitting in their chair and looking like an undead clown. The others were all practising their shambling, while Schuester and Beiste were choreographing and manhandling a group of Titans into doing a synchronised shambling.

And I managed to corner Karofsky, who was scrubbing grey make-up from his face. He was the only football player with any kind of grace with the routine. He made it look like a routine, instead of a series of dance steps. I told him that.

"Shut up, Hummel," he snapped, but I thought he was pleased with the compliment. "Let's just survive, okay?" There came that pleading look, but we were alone and Brittany was the only one who could work the puppy dog eyes on me.

I sat across from him. "Just think of what could happen if you kept dancing, maybe took a few singing lesson, all that dedication and effort you put into bullying us—what if you kept this up? You could be one of the most talented guys in the school, David."

My use of his first name got his attention. "Yeah…" he said in a very small voice. "Sure."

He got up quickly and walked aimlessly towards Finn. I didn't hear what he said, but soon Mr. Schuester said the guys were going to zombifiy _She's Not There_ before the MJ/Yeah Yeah Yeah extravaganza.

Given the sheet music, I saw that I didn't have any lines. I just harmonised with Finn and Sam for the chorus. I didn't care about that. I just thought I had made some progress with Karofsky. I wasn't planning on making him anything, but he clearly enjoyed this and… well… ironically, it was his homophobia keeping him from doing what he really—

"Kurt."

I twisted my crossed legs around and saw Rachel, bleeding from the ears, with half her cheekbone showing. She took the chair Karofsky had just left.

"I didn't change the lines of _Thriller/Heads Will Roll_ because you wanted me to. I changed it because it was right to let more people sing."

I felt the snarky and mean me slip into control. "I have no clue why Schuester put you in charge of making the song."

"I will ignore that." Rachel looked hard at me. "This isn't about me, not everything is, and I understand that…"

As she kept on talking, I realised something that I couldn't believe at first, but it had to be true.

"You're threatened by me," I said incredulously.

"I'm not—"

"Really?"

Rachel swung her head around, looking everywhere but at me. "The Club likes you more than me, and I think songs should be distributed based on talent, not popularity."

I raised an eyebrow and she reacted just like I thought she would: she kept talking. I was right: she _was_ threatened. Oh. My. God. I threatened Rachel Berry by just being Kurt Hummel.

"It's not that you're not talented. There are degrees of talent and I'm more talented than you are—"

"We've both got another year and a half here," I said, exasperated. "You can surrender a few songs. We're all talented and I know that winning is the most important thing to you, but I joined Glee to feel like I belonged, like there was somewhere I could be to be me. This means a lot more to me than you."

Rachel reared back for the attack. "Winning is not the most important—"

"Of course it is, Rachel! You would kill both your fathers for a competition solo."

Rachel stood up, although it didn't make much of a difference. "This is my future. I need these credentials to get into school." She was practically spitting at me, but it all sounded like an actress's lines. Fake. Fake. Fake. Drama. Drama. Drama.

"No you don't," I scoffed. "You can get in on talent during the audition, the rest of us can't. We actually need the credentials, but that's not why we deserve to sing."

"Really? Why is that, then?"

"Because there are more people in the Club than just you, Rachel!" I stood up, too, and I was a quite few inches taller.

Then there was a strong hand on my chest and it pushed me away from Rachel very forcefully. "Just calm down, the both of you!" Mercedes towered over both of us, making us feel like we were three inches tall. Especially since Rachel and I were on the floor.

"Girls, girls, you're _both_ pretty! You can fight later," she said angrily, and she stomped off, pointing a harsh finger at me. "You be nice, white boy."

I straightened up and looked down at Rachel. She looked so pitiful. She slouched, her hair hiding half her face, and gave me a furiously dirty look.

"I'm sorry," I said, reaching out a hand, half wishing I could skewer her. "You're that selfish friend everyone has. You're nice most of the time and an insufferable brat on occasion, and someone needs to keep that in check."

She took my hand and marched over to the make-up station without another word.

I had a sinking feeling that I had just made a new enemy.

***.***

"Kurt, I think I did something bad."

He didn't say anything on the other end. The phoneline was just dead.

"Do you—um—do you want me to come over or….?"

"Mmmmhmmm," I said quickly, nodding my head, hearing my hair scratch on the mouthpiece with static.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," he promised me before hanging up.

I bit my nails nervously. I knew Kurt was having a very bad week, even with the superfun Zombie Camp, so I wasn't sure if I should have told him this. But he deserved to know. Even if he didn't deserve all this stress. I had been arguing with myself all night and it was now nine o'clock and he would know when it was morning and I wasn't in the choir room.

I was still sitting in the middle of my bed when Kurt came in; his jacket was cold and slippery with the drizzly rain. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Thanks for not saying 'What did you do?' Then I would feel like I did something really bad." He held my hands and took my nails from my mouth and kneeled beside me. "Me and Quinn and Santana, we quit the Glee Club to go to Regionals with the Cheerios."

He dropped my hands.

"And I'm going to get shot out of a cannon for Coach Sue so we can win Regionals."

Kurt stood up, turned away from me and held his hand to his head. I crawled forward on my bed and held the rail of my bed so tightly that when I twisted my hands, the metal squeaked.

Kurt's head was nodding in time to something. It nodded ten times before he turned around. "Brittany, that wasn't very smart."

A sound like the one Mr. Theodore's dog made after Chastity attacked him came out of me and I started to shake a little. Kurt wasn't mad, but he was a little disappointed and the way he was talking to me—like I was six—just made everything worse, like I had disappointed him even more because I wasn't as good as other girls or guys he could have.

"I'm sorry." I sounded like a mouse.

Something in Kurt broke apart and he pulled me into a cold, wet hug. His shirt smelled like Kurt and his voice kind of sounded like Kurt's, but I still felt six and Kurt's girlfriend wasn't six.

"I'm so sorry, but if I can't do this—the team needs me…"

"You love Glee," he whispered. "You like to dance. You like to sing. You told me you don't like to cheerlead. None of the other girls are nice to you and we've always loved you. That cannon can kill you, and that's not worth—"

"You don't understand." I pushed him away and he fell back, making my pillows all wet. "You've never done something to make someone else happy. You've always been you and not caring if others accept you or want you or need you. I _need_ to do this because all those girls are expecting me to, they're all wanting me to and if I don't, we lose and we've never, ever lost. How can you understand that if you've never done something like this?"

Kurt tucked a piece of hair back into place. "You're doing this because girls who don't like you and who you don't like are telling you to?" He didn't sound impressed, and when he said it like that it didn't sound very good either. "Look, I don't like Santana but she has your best interests at heart. Does _she_ think it's a good idea?"

"No." I slinked back into Kurt's arms, feeling even younger and stupider.

"That's two people who love you, telling you that this isn't a good idea."

"I'm sorry," I said into Kurt's shirt. How come he was the only person who had never called me stupid and had made me feel worse than anyone who ever had?

"We should sing _Teenage Dream_ when we come back to Glee," I said. For some reason, Kurt's ears went really bright red.

***.***

Brittany wasn't in the morning Glee practise, but Rachel sure was. All I could think about as I allowed her to plaster my face with brown-grey zombie make-up for the boys' routine for _She's Not There_ as how my blood pressure was slowly climbing.

I felt kind of bad for her. She considered me her only competition to complete and utter Glee domination, and, here I was, trying to take it from her. The nice, diplomatic way would be to allow myself to be a doormat and just let Rachel get her way, like everyone else dealt with her. But I wasn't in the mood for being diplomatic at eight in the morning.

"I can completely understand why you want to be me, but, trust me, it's way too late to change for Nationals. You had your taste of fame, I understand that, believe me, but—"

"Oh my God, shut up!"

Rachel, who been smudging a good thick line of some freaky shade of eyeliner, nearly blinded me and held the pencil back in surprise.

"This is the fifth time you've berated me about what I said, trying to intimidate me into stopping before I've started." I considered her for a minute, her perfectly placed mask of confusion replacing her inner rage. "Tomorrow, we can have a diva-off. You win, I stop. I win, and others can sing for Regionals. Hell, even Nationals if possible."

"Well—" She performed a perfect actress's pout.

"And stop acting, it's insulting."

The mask fell pretty quickly. I was right: she was furious. "Fine. Pick a song."

"I'm fine with anything."

"The classic mash-up: _Anything Goes/Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better_."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"See you then."

"I guess so."

She threw the eyeliner pencil down, where it ricocheted off my knee and landed peacefully on the ground. I picked up where she left off, with a heavy pit of guilt in my stomach. I sponged a layer of the grey-brown zombie make-up (which was really just a concoction of Magic Marker ink, various shades of bronzer and face paints) before adding the gory details of an ear-to-neck gash that bled out.

I knew I shouldn't have been doing this. I was potentially losing a friend, just because her one fault was getting out of control. Rachel worked incredibly hard for her solos and she sang them beautifully, but that didn't mean she was the only one who deserved them, right?

I was doing the right thing, right?

To my absolute horror, a boiling hot tear of frustration leaked from my eye, smudging the make-up directly under my left eye. There was just too much going on in my life. Much more drama and I was going to explode.

I let out a deep breath, allowed a few good luck hugs, and then shambled on stage with the other guys. To my surprise, Karofsky was good, could carry a tune, could dance and seemed to be enjoying himself.

***.***

I didn't hear much of it, but I heard one of the stupid hockey players say, "Holy crap, they turned Karofsky gay!" and then there was a mega _spla-crunch_ and the whole football team plus Kurt were covered in cherry-flavoured slushies. When I got closer, though, Artie and Kurt had survived the hit because they were a lot smaller than the others. But they still followed the football guys into the showers to help them scrub off the awesome zombie make-up.

Karofsky, with half the team, stormed out of the showers a few minutes later, half zombified and drenched. I managed to get Karofsky to the side. The others didn't think there was anything going on, so they let us talk.

I pulled him into a hallway that was mostly empty. "What's so bad about being gay?" It was always something I wanted to ask him and now was a good time.

He looked at his feet and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "It's not right, not how things are meant to be. It's just—"

"You're scared of being bullied and abused like you bullied and abused Kurt? We all know you're no unicorn, but you could at least _try_." I folded my arms and tried to look hard at him. "And what's wrong if two people love each other and want to have sex? Kurt once told me that love knows no gender."

Karofsky glared at me, but he didn't have any words to back him up. "Gay is just lust—"

"You can't have a real good relationship without lust," I said. "And if you're going to force yourself to be with girls and play nice, then you're going to have some really awful relationships."

"Why do you care about me?" he almost shouted.

"'Cause Kurt is really upset and he's trying to save the world and he can't do it by himself, and part of the world he wants to save is you. Plus, you're miserable and sad and lonely and you hate yourself and that's not a good place to be." I thought for a minute he was going to hit me. His hands were fists and his arms were really stiff, but he didn't.

He just yelled a little more. "I don't need Hummel's help!"

I knew I shouldn't have followed him when he walked away from me, but I had to. I wasn't finished with him. "Then whose help do you need? 'Cause you need someone's."

He turned a corner and we were getting really close to the team, so I fell behind and started to go and find Kurt. I wasn't mean enough to keep talking about him being gay in front of his friends.

***.***

"What's wrong? You look terrible."

I raised an eyebrow tiredly. "I didn't think I could look terrible."

Blaine shrugged and gave a coy smile. "Nah, me neither. I was referring to your lack of sleep and the stress you've got hanging over you. What's wrong?"

I waved a hand and took a drink from my only semi-crappy coffee. My coffeemaker was nothing compared to the Lima Bean's juice, which I had become sorely spoiled by. Blaine had agreed to hang out and help me rehearse the mash-up for the diva-off, and I knew we shouldn't have taken a break.

"Too much to explain with one coffee in my system." I got up and poured myself another one, stalling for time.

"I'm waiting," said Blaine, draining his own ceramic cup and reaching out for another.

I sighed as I poured sugar and milk. "Karofsky's sexuality, Brittany going to the cheerleading Regionals and getting shot out of a cannon, Rachel Berry's war that I'm sorry to say I started, and the football team's invasion of the Glee Club."

Blaine coughed. "That's quite a lot, but I don't think Karofsky is your problem anymore," he said, taking the coffee from me. "Thank you very much."

"You are very welcome." I sat across him again. "He is. I'm the only one, besides Brittany, who knows about him and can help him." My beloved kitchen table was scattered with sheet music, lyrics, and pitch pipes in various stages of accuracy. "I've also volunteered my services as a kicker to the football team once again."

Blaine nearly spat out his coffee. "No way."

"Yes way." I smirked, stirring my coffee into an aimless whirlpool. "Puck told us that we only need three or four more. High school regulations or something."

Blaine nodded and went into a football rant. I didn't understand the majority of it, but he was just so intent and passionate about it that I frankly didn't care what it was about. He totally broke the stereotype: watched football and basketball, fenced, played polo and boxed.

Shit. He was speaking normal English again.

"—which parts of this are you actually singing again?" He picked up the most recent copy of the mash-up I had found online.

"It's a diva-off," I explained. "The instrumental runs and each of us sing what we can fit in to show off what we've got. There's no specific set lines per person."

Blaine whistled. "That's gonna be a bloodbath."

I sighed again, draining my scalding coffee in one. "That's why I need help. I need to be pitch perfect and extravagantly awesome the whole song through, not just shining on a few lines."

"Then let's run this again," said Blaine, blowing into the wrong place on the pitch pipe. I took it from him and spun it around his mouth to the right note. "Blow," I said, smirking. He blew and the shining C came out.

"_Times have changed…"_

***.***

I didn't think I did the right thing, but if it would help save those three little baby cannons from going hungry, my death would all be worth it. Plus, it would make Santana happy if they won Regionals, even if I wasn't there to celebrate with them. And Kurt wouldn't mind it. He'd probably like the big explosion—guys liked big explosions—and Coach Sue would tape it for others to see.

Santana took me to the bus and we waited out in front for Coach Sue to be ready to go. I was sad that I was going to miss Kurt be the kicker again and do the _Single Ladies_ dance, because it was always kind of hot when he did it. I told Santana that she should tape it and send it to me in the afterlife.

"Anything you want, Britts," she said.

We stared up at the cannon. It was big and scary-looking with a Brittany-sized tube for me to set on fire and shot out of. There were a lot of spray-painted flames around the shooting-Brittany-out-of end. It made my knees knock together. All the other girls were stretching and getting ready for the routine, but Santana stayed with me.

"I'm scared," I whispered to her.

She patted my back and pulled me into a one-arm-over-shoulder hug/squeeze. "Everything will be okay. Coach Sue won't do something really stupid, like kill you. She'll never get any respect again."

That made me feel a little better and I turned to hug her full on. "I'm so happy we made up and that I can die loving the two best people I've ever met," I said, my head right beside her ponytail.

Her manicured hands patted my back again. "So, you're not even going to swipe Hummel's V-Card before you go?"

"Kurt doesn't have visa," I said, pulling away. Santana gave me a look that said, _Think this through, Brittany_. I did and nodded. "Yeah, I'm a little sad about that. Don't do it for me, though," I warned. "Tell him it'll be okay for him and Blaine to be dolphins together. Well, dolphin and bicorn."

I kicked my little white tennis shoes on the black parking lot, walking a few steps on the bright yellow lines.

"Could you steady me?" said Santana. She started to stretch like the other Cheerios, reaching her legs up so she was really tall and doing vertical splits and turning her body around and around. Most of the time, she put a hand on my shoulder to make sure she didn't faceplant. The whole thing was really hot.

"I know Kurt knows this already," I said after she was mostly finished. "But we don't say it as often as me and Kurt do, so I want you to know that I love you." Santana stopped twisting. "Like, really love you. Like, how I love Kurt."

She looked at me and she did that thing where I couldn't tell what she was thinking. "Yeah. I love you too." She kept stretching, and it felt like there was a golden smile in my chest. I was so happy she got to know that and we got to say it, because you should always tell people you love that you love them.

"Just don't say that too loud," she added.

***.***

I sat on the sidelines most of the time, playing Tetris on my phone or humming _Anything Goes/Anything You Can Do_ under my breath. I only stood up when my team scored points. Blaine was somewhere in the stands with my Dad and Carole.

The girls had all joined the team and they had recruited some heavyset wrestling girl, who Artie knew from AV Club, to be some muscle and "bring the pain". She sure was doing well. Good thing, too. The other girls just went facedown when the ball was snapped. And I was once again, I was back in my number 3 jersey, shoulder pads making me as wide as I was tall, absently waiting to be called up and kick. This time, I was dancing on the sidelines to headphones and my iPod and didn't have to humiliate the team even more.

Now, I actually cared about the team. But the only points we managed to score were from my few and far between kicks, at least until Tina unexpectedly ran all the way to the other end, only stopping when a guy three times her weight threw her to the ground. We should've gotten points for trying.

I had just started a new marathon game when Finn jostled me from my Tetris-infused world. "Kurt, you and me are going to go and convince the Cheerios to do the halftime show with us."

"Um, sure, okay. Sounds good."

We dumped our helmets and found the back parking lot where the bus and the trailer on which the cannon was mounted were. Cheerios were starting to board, but there were three lonely figures, staring up at the flaming cannon.

"Hey," yelled Finn when we were in earshot.

The three turned around—my God, I had never seen Brittany look so sad.

"What're you doing here?" asked Quinn.

"Stopping you from going to Sue's Regionals competition," said Finn and the same time I said, "Stopping you from dying."

All four of them looked at me.

"You guys have got to come to the game with us," said Finn desperately.

"Haven't you been paying attention?" snapped Santana. "If we're not Cheerios, we're nothing."

"Would you rather be a dead Cheerio or a living Gleek?" I asked, looking specifically at Brittany. "Sue never cared about you guys. She's fine killing you! But seriously, if you didn't think it could hurt your reps, would you really go and follow Sue to Regionals?"

Brittany looked up at me from underneath her fluffed bangs and said, "No, not really."

The others agreed, shaking their heads.

Finn had a sweet word with Quinn about her strength, and Santana had a bitch out, before we were free to go, the five of us, back to the game. At least now I would have some company on the benches. We walked back, Finn's arm around Quinn and my arm around Brittany, and Santana also threw her arm around Brittany, but it was around her waist, not her shoulder.

I frowned, looking at that arm.

"No time for a fivesome, ladies and Frankenstein. Bus leaves in five," shouted Sue.

We looked back. God, she was wearing a puffed, tracksuit, floor-length coat.

"We quit Cheerios," said Quinn happily.

"You can't quit Cheerios," sputtered Sue. "It's blood in, blood out. Now get your sweet little cans on that bus and leave your boyfriends to their football game."

"We still quit," snapped Santana.

Sue lost her cool then. "You're my stars! If you leave, I have no performance!"

Brittany shrugged around me. "Sucks to be you."

For a minute, I thought Sue was going to stomp her foot.

***.***

"I'm really glad Kurt and Finn brought us all back," I said to Santana. There weren't enough mirrors in the showers for all of us, so the girls doubled up and I was painting Santana's big lips with some freaky black-purple lipstick.

"Uh-huh." She rubbed most of it off and it made this big splotch around her mouth. "Great."

I got a blush brush and started sweeping grey stuff over her face and smudging it up around her messed-up eyeliner. She did my eyes while I did that. It was zombie chaos everywhere: half-zombies pulling on torn jerseys and spraying temporary hair dye and weird, funky, matted and messed-up clothes were everywhere.

Kurt, having done his zombie make-up an hour ago while the team was playing their game, was trying to tease Quinn's hair into an acceptable curly mess, while spraying black spray to make it darker. His hair was all standing up and his number was bloody and there were bite marks everywhere. The guys were right up in the glass, like, their noses were pushed against it. They couldn't quite get it right, but they didn't want any help. Except from Kurt, because asking for make-up help from Kurt wasn't really asking for help.

Santana and I put on these furry half-coats made from dollar-store fake fur. Underneath, we were wearing these ripped red dresses that were all dirty and grimy.

"I've got a question," I said suddenly.

Santana fixed my dress. Apparently, I had put my arm through a decoration hole instead of the arm hole. "What?"

"Why did we stay in Cheerios for so long if we hated it? We could've been popular without it."

She looked at me, her big dark eyes even darker than usual. "No one would think that either of us were… you know, protection from… stuff."

"From being girl dolphins?"

Even though I thought she wanted to kill me right then, she smiled and said, "Just finish your make-up. And I thought your word was bicorn."

"That's just a unicorn proud of its bi-ness. Like Kurt. Or me." I got the lipstick and lined my mouth several times really thickly.

Santana shook her head and started to make her hair super curly. "Brittany. What are we going to do with you?"

"Give me solos and dance breaks?" I said hopefully.

"Ha ha, nice try," she said. "_O-o-o-off with your head."_

That song was really loads of fun to do. Mike Chang and me got to dance a lot and there was a lot of synchronised shambling and stumbling and zombie-like things. Artie sounded great and Rachel and Santana made a good match—just vocally, though, nothing else—and Finn was creepy with his Voice Changing stuff.

Throughout most of the dance, a zombie-make-up-less Karofsky was watching us really sadly, like he wanted to join in and have fun and perform but couldn't because something was stopping him. Then, all of a sudden, he put on his ripped jersey and started dancing with us.

Then, it was all over. The stands had exploded with sound and everyone loved it. The cold fog, the changing lights, the awesome singing, the awesome dancing—we had made everything better. Kurt and us all sat down on the benches together, but the team went to go take their make-up off.

They came out… with it still on. It was creepy to see them without the lights and the drama. Kurt pulled out some wetwipes from his bag and handed each of us ex-Cheerios one to get the make-up off. It came off in big sweeps, and it made us all really cold but there was no more scratchy, itchy make-up. I kissed the un-zombified Kurt and sat beside him. The rest of the girls had joined us and were shaking pom-poms.

We all cheered with the rest of the stands. The guys started to catch up with the other team and soon there were only a few points between them. One more throw and run left. A few seconds, and it was the other team's ball. None of us really understood the game, but we were sure we had lost it.

Then, without any kind of warning, our team (our _zombie_ team) started chanting "_Braaaaaiiiiiinnnnsss"_. I hit Kurt and he looked up from his phone. "_Brains_…_ brains… brains_. Come on."

Soon everyone on the field was chanting it, and then everyone in the stands. It was like a wave of "_braaaaaiiiinnnnsss"_.

Puck picked up the ball and ran with it, all the way to the endline and he did a little victory dance. The stands exploded even worse than when we danced and sang. It was incredible. We had won! I wasn't really sure how or why, but we won! Kurt lifted me right out of my seat and off my feet in a big hug. Half the stands rushed the pitch to congratulate the team and give them big hugs, too.

***.***

"Hello." I cautiously walked up to him.

Karofsky turned around and slammed the door to his locker hard. "What?"

"You liked singing and dancing—there's no one here, so don't bother checking," I said as Karofsky pivoted his head. "You liked being in Glee, and I know you could be really good. You're an okay football player and an okay hockey player—but you could really be a somebody performer if you put all that energy—"

"Yeah, you gave me the sale's pitch a few days back. What's your point?" Karofsky hitched up his bag and looked over my shoulder.

"I'm giving you the opportunity to be in Glee. Permanently."

Karofsky actually smiled and snorted at that. "Really? Who said anything about permanently?"

I shrugged, keeping a careful distance between us in case this turned violent. I didn't think so, but you never know. "You could be fantastic, and this is something that can get you a scholarship, something that can be sustained after school. You don't have the skills or the ability to become incredible at sports, but with the right tutelage, you could become fantastic at performing."

Karofsky started to get that desperate, _I can't but I want to_ look on his face again, and I felt my heart ache. I lowered my voice. "I know you're scared of being called gay, of _being_ gay, but who cares? Neil Patrick Harris is gay. You simply must watch _How I Met Your Mother_."

"I do," muttered Karofsky, lowering his head. "Didn't know he was gay."

"That's my point," I said, edging closer, excited. "Remember Blaine? He takes part in the most manly sport of all: hitting each other for fun, otherwise known as boxing. Fencing, aka, sword fighting. Polo, an aggressive water sport. I know you think I'm this hyper soprano fairy who spends millions on clothes, but that's not true either. I can tear apart any car you point a finger at and put it back together without help. You've already seen how good of a kicker I am. Just because you're gay, doesn't mean it has to define your entire life. It's part of who you are, not who you are."

Karofsky didn't say anything. He just stared at the ground.

"My offer remains," I said, my voice shaking a little with anticipation. I wet my lips. "So, I'll see you when I see you."

"Yeah. Sure."

I walked away as quickly as I could without running, and just hoped I had done the right thing. I wasn't too sure about it, though. Now all that I had to do was go and kick Rachel Berry's ass from here to Timbuktu.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>My project is finished, my books are read and school is under control. You guys should all expect updates more regularly, but I first MUST get some input. This is another chance to tell me where you want this to go.<br>**

**Should Kurt beat Rachel in the diva-off?  
><strong>

**Yes/No?  
><strong>

**And, I'd just like some feedback on how I characterized Rachel. I was aiming for desperate but kinda bitchy.  
><strong>


	12. Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

**Disclaimer**: *sigh* Glee is now over. Such a shame. Now they have no more opportunities to make up for their stupid mistakes. I'd never take credit for _that_.

**This is my adaption of the episode s02e12: Silly Love Songs.  
><strong>

**Anything Goes/Anything You Can Do**: watch?v=BO4Fi2rESDA**  
>Kurt's<strong> **song** (instrumental, intro ends at 0:24): watch?v=MrYwjcFGzgc  
><strong>Brittany's song<strong> (dancing snippet, 3:52 - 5:03): watch?v=i8X4ults5nk

**All others are canon and can be YouTube'd if you so want to. Now, I'm quite proud of my song choices for both of them. For the first time, I've figured out a long story-line and I know where it's going. So, there's meant to be questions here. They'll be answered later. :P**

**But I must say a big thank you to **boredsenseless2** for their incredibly long, in-depth reviews. They've boosted my self-esteem and I truly appreciate them. You don't know how much they mean to me.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

Perhaps facing down bullies had prepared me, maybe it was just because I thought I was going into a fight I could actually win, or it could just have been that, for once, I was part of a majority. And it felt fucking awesome.

This was serious business and everyone from Mr. Schuester to Coach Beiste understood how much this meant, how much was riding on this. I know if it had to be, Rachel Berry would have out sung every member of the Glee Club to earn her solos, and she probably could have.

But right then, standing in front of Glee on Mr. Schuester's left as he explained the rules, I thought I stood a fighting chance.

"This diva off will be done differently than previous ones with Mercedes and Rachel when they did Take Me or Leave Me or when Kurt and Rachel fought for Defying Gravity, it will be done in the style most typically seen when a duo are battling for the same part in a musical. A song—in this case, the mash-up Anything You Can Do and Anything Goes—is given to the participants, each learn it and perform it and it's done as a battle on stage. Points are typically given for the overall voice and the overall performance."

The basics out there, Mr. Schuester started to go up and down the rows, handing out folded cards. "You'll give each Kurt and Rachel scores out of ten for each category. When that's done, we'll average them out and the winner is announced. The winner will be our featured vocalist at Regionals, and maybe we can sort out our other singers this way for Nationals."

Mr. Schuester turned and gave Rachel and I each a hard look, like he wasn't approving of what I was doing, before saying, "You have ten minutes in private to warm-up. You can use the bathrooms."

When we left the choir room, we went our separate ways and I started to rehearse the song, the expression—the lyrics. God help me if I forgot the lyrics. I scaled my voice up to the highest note I was daring to reach—the highest note I could on a regular basis, and then a couple of tones higher. It was a risk, and when I got that high not only were dogs howling but my voice sometimes lost its body and thinned out. The next reliable note where I could avoid this was too low, not nearly extravagant enough. At the bare minimum, I had to make it shimmer.

Good lord, the acoustics in here were terrible. And I looked awful. Pale and clammy, my palms started to sweat and I felt my tie was too tight. I sighed and changed it to the way Brittany liked it: loose, untucked, with the top buttons undone and the sleeves pushed back. A more casual style could sell the song better, too. It was an angry song, organised chaos, a long rant mashed with a childish claim that I was now staking my pride on. With that in mind, I spent the remainder of my far-too-short ten minutes styling my hair again.

Rachel refused to look at me when we returned to the choir room. Interaction with the opponent was necessary, but a hello wouldn't have been out of place. Mr. Schuester flipped a coin and Rachel got to start. I had to allow her at least two lines before jumping in. The dimmer switch was spun, stagelights were lit and the jazz band started up.

It had begun. And I hated Rachel for winning the coin toss. Her shining Broadway-quality voice rang out. She strutted a little in front of me and tilted her face to the lights, raising a hand dramatically. This was the psychological disadvantage I had going second.

_"Times have changed  
>And we've often rewound the clock<br>Since the Puritans got a shock  
>When they landed on Plymouth Rock<em>

Truthfully, I nearly forgot that I had to jump in. Let alone make this a duet in parts. Hell, my final note was hinging on the hope that she would jump in it and not be able to reach me. I crossed back to the piano and decided to make this song exactly what Rachel wasn't making it: a war, not a Broadway classic. It was her and me, not her and the song. She could sing this in her sleep—we both could. That was part of the reason she picked it. I purposefully started a few notes higher before sliding down more and more to make it sound like a warning, while trying to

_"If today  
>Any shock they should try to stem<br>'Stead of landing on Plymouth Rock  
>Plymouth Rock would land on them"<em>

Rachel, stunned, spun back to face me. I was so relieved she decided to play the game; if not, I would've looked like an idiot. Slowly, she advanced on me, a slightly evil look in her eye. She kept careful position of her body to ensure the audience could still see.

_"In olden days, a glimpse of stocking  
>Was looked on as something shocking<br>But now, God knows..."_

When she was almost in my face, I joined in, hopping up to sit on the piano. I was drawing a large breath and singing lower than she did. It was very difficult, not only because of the pitch but because I was no longer standing, giving my breath not quite enough room, making the note sound forced.

_"Anything goes!"_

I quickly figured out that I wasn't going to be able to sing much more on the piano; I spun off and went right past her before I could botch another note.

_"Good authors, too, who once knew better words  
>Now only use four letter words"<em>

She allowed me just the two lines before chorusing in for the final notes.

_"Writing prose...  
>Anything goes!"<em>

I'm man enough to admit it: my voice, and most others, pale in comparisons of power next to Rachel Berry. Mercedes was probably the only one in the room able to go toe-to-toe with Rachel and beat her with powerhouse. I'm just a fairy. A damn high fairy, whose only chance is to beat with range.

For the sakes of lyrical meaning and the technique of speaking with tone, I was glad Rachel didn't leave me hanging.

_"Anything you can be, I can be greater  
>Sooner or later, I'm greater than you<em>

And the traditional back and forth bitch-off that started the true child-like aspect of the mash-up: I was the no-er and she was the yes-er. Through some miracle of my nerves (which were shaking like a sewing machine), I managed to shoot my voice from rest to something easily in the 5's. Unplanned and unexpected from both of us, I think I was just glad that I neither shrieked nor went sharp or that my voice lost its body—all encouraging things, and, feeling brave, I decided to notch my final note up a few more steps.

_"No, you're not  
>Yes, I am<br>No, you're not  
>Yes, I am<br>No, you're not, not, not!  
>Yes, I am, yes, I am!"<em>

Thankfully, someone told the jazz band to leave out the dance break, and a few seconds and it cut, rather unexpectedly, to the next verse. The chorus normally sang it, but for the individual scripts I had dug out, it had us singing the whole thing in a set of notes that was just pushing Rachel Berry's range—not the star range, obviously, but the one that was used for typical songs.

And I'm ashamed to say that I cheered inside when Rachel missed her first note. It was the only one she missed, but it was a note.

_"The world has gone mad today  
>And good's bad today<br>And black's white today  
>And day's night today<br>When most guys today  
>That women prize today<br>Are just silly gigolos"_

While Rachel was at the mental disadvantage I grabbed the next lines and finished the chorus's part in a normal, male tone. Something in the 2's, I think. Something that made me sound like a guy, in any case. At least she was able to finish my "longer" as part of the chorus, harmonizing into my lower voice.

_"Any note you can hold, I can hold longer  
>I can hold any note longer than you"<em>

I could almost see the steam pouring from Rachel's ears. She knew she had missed an opportunity—because at the end of the final back and forth was a good note for the yes-er and the no-er was just speaking with tone. Losing a note and giving me one—not a good day for Berry. And it was one of the two climatic notes of the song. Actually, it was the longest, most powerful note in the song. Lucky me.

_"No, you can't  
>Yes, I can<br>No, you can't  
>Yes, I can<br>No, you can't  
>Yes, I can<br>Yes, I.."_

I allowed Rachel to step in and sing the final yes's with me. It was, after all, the run that I needed her to sing with me in order to make me stand out. It was high and powerful, and this time, unlike Defying Gravity, I knew I wasn't going to throw it. I couldn't name notes by heart like Rachel, and I certainly didn't know which note I finally reached, all I know is that I left Rachel in the dust with no way to catch up without crinkling her note and not soaring smoothly. I held the note as long as I dared, leaving the needed air to come down easily, and Rachel made the decision to hold the note longer than me, clearly showing her control. I wouldn't have done it, largely because I couldn't, but there is little complaining to be done about what I did.

_"Yes! I! Can!"_

I knew it wasn't a competition based on vocal range, but I still felt good about it. The note was clean, pure and a smooth, quick climb. It kept the emphasis the original song had and, most importantly, it didn't stumble, sharpen or even loose as much body as I expected it to. There was nothing bad I could say. Sure, things I would've done differently, but nothing out-right horrible. This time, I would know if I really was better.

The instrumental ended and Rachel and I were still glaring at each other, breathless and tired, half-leaning over the piano to keep our torsos as straight as possible to get air, but far enough to keep the dynamic. And now, it wasn't faked and I hoped after this I still had a friend in Rachel. Perhaps deep down, but a friend was somewhere in that girl.

Rachel and I stayed at the front until all of the Glee Club's members and Mr. Schuester filled in those cards. There was no applause. He disappeared to his office, and the whole time no one said a word. It was deathly quiet. Then Finn broke the fourth wall and said to me, "Dude, you okay?"

I knew it was meant with all the brotherly affection he could muster. I just nodded and shrugged. "Couldn't be better."

"Rach?"

Cringing at the half-name by an ex-boyfriend, Rachel sat up straighter and smiled in what as an imitation of a casual smirk. "Perfect." But there was none of her usual gusto.

Brittany gave me a huge smile and a thumbs up from the front row. She picked up Santana's hand and forced it into a thumbs up, too. Santana smiled at Brittany's antics, rather than in support of my performance, but that was okay. I counted the votes I knew I had: Brittany (obviously), Santana (Rachel's arch-nemesis), Mercedes (my own best friend), and most likely Sam (who was grinning at me and showing all the silent support he could). The others' faces were blank or looking at their shoes.

Finn was the only one making some effort. But I didn't know if he could vote against his ex-girlfriend. Based on family loyalty, he probably should, but I never found out if he did.

Right then, Mr. Schuester came back, blowing air through his teeth and saying, "It's close. Really close." He fanned the cue cards out and my heart fluttered. Rachel looked ready to faint. "I counted the points, totalled and averaged them all out. Kurt got, on average, eighteen and a half out of twenty."

Frankly, it was less than I expected. I knew that my Glee Clubbers would be playing politics rather than picking the winner based on the song. Knowing that, at least one person voted honestly.

Mr. Schuester looked at Rachel. "You got, on average—this is just for the competition, Rachel, I want you to remember that."

Rachel looked like she was going to cry for a minute, but then she composed herself. "Yes?"

"Sixteen."

Rachel let out a small watery cough that was nearly a cry of anguish. No matter how much I disliked her that was from the heart, and I never enjoyed hurting people. I stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "You did really good, you know?" I said quietly.

"It's not fair," said Rachel fiercely. Then louder. "It's not fair!"

And then she stormed out.

"Congratulations, Kurt," said Mr. Schuester tiredly. "When you know which songs, just let me know."

When Mr. Schuester closed the door, Santana leaned forward and said, "Thank God for that!"

"What?" I asked. Brittany stood up, and bodily pushed me into her chair before sitting on my lap and throwing her arms around my neck. I was momentarily distracted by a congratulatory kiss, but heard Santana's reply.

"You won. Rachel would've been just terrible if she did." Santana pulled out her phone and started texting. "Now we might get a chance to sing a little."

Finn's protests were ignored until he ran after Rachel.

"Am I the only one who's a little scared about what dance number Kurt's going to pick?" asked Sam from the back, raising a hand and smirking good-naturedly.

Even I laughed at that, albeit, I had to laugh through Brittany's lips.

***.***

"Do you think Adam Lambert would be too gay?"

I looked up at the CD he was holding up. I didn't even need to ask him what kind of music it was. "Yes," I said. "Britney has a new CD out. _Femme_ _Fatale_." I searched through all his thousands of CDs, all spread out on his bed, but I couldn't find Britney's light one. "You don't have Britney's?" I asked quietly, disappointed.

Kurt looked at me and smiled Supermanly. It was so normal for him, he was so happy these days. I felt like I had done so much more than what I had originally wanted to do. "Okay. What about—?" He reached for the stack of CDs that were carefully straight on his little table, and I whacked his hand.

"No musicals! No one likes musicals."

Kurt rolled his eyes and looked at a copy of Teenage Dream. I had promised that we would stay away from Katy Perry, but Kurt was dead set on making our performance Gaga. And there wasn't a fabulous Gaga ballad for us to sing.

"Not even Wicked?"

"Not even Wicked."

He reached out for his Gaga CD again and turned it over, like there would be another ten tracks now, including one called _Kurt and Brittany's Awesome Duet_. Now, that smile was starting to slip off. "Maybe I shouldn't have won," he said quietly. "Rachel is better at this than I am. She has more practise."

I felt my mouth unlock and fall open. "You're going to be awesome!"

He nibbled on his lip. "But what if we lose?"

"Then the judges don't know talent, even if it was dancing and singing right in front of them. Which it would be if we were there," I said firmly. I wanted to crawl over the hundreds of CDs and hug him but I thought I'd break them, the CDs not his ribs.

He smiled a little. "You're my girlfriend; you're meant to say that. Thanks, nonetheless, though." He looked at the ceiling then back at me. "I think it's time for a break, don't you? Coffee?"

I nodded, already imagining the gargantuan mountains of whipped cream on hot chocolate. "Sure."

But it was the week before Valentine's Day, and hearts and candies and little curly-haired guys in diapers shooting arrows were everywhere. Red and pink streamers and confetti and the counter was selling huge cookies with pink icing that Kurt said "looked toxic".

He was in a nasty mood until he saw Blaine sitting in the corner with confetti in his hair and a newspaper in his hand. After dusting some of the sparkly hearts from his coat and picking them from his scarf, Kurt and me sat across from Blaine in one of those booths. Blaine started talking about last night's episode of _America's Next Top Model_, and Kurt looked like he wanted to kill a window decoration that was right beside him.

When Blaine and I stopped talking, Kurt grabbed the white and red puppies off the window ledge and said, "Okay, I'm all for flair but these Valentine Day decorations are just tacky." Shaking the poor puppies, he added, "I mean, what the hell is this supposed to be?"

Blaine rolled his eyes. "It's clearly puppy love," he said patiently. "It's cute, lay off it." He took the puppies and stuck them back on the window. When he touched them, he hit a button and they sang _I Love You_ in voices higher than Kurt's.

"See? Adorable," said Blaine.

"Creepy," muttered Kurt. Then he raised his voice. "It's a simple excuse to sell candy and greeting cards on a holiday."

Blaine smiled and looked at me. "Single people are meant to be miserable in February, Kurt. Turn to your left." I put my hand on his leg and he jumped. "Besides," Blaine added, "call me a hopeless romantic but this is my favourite holiday." When Kurt raised an eyebrow, he went on. "I think there's something really great about a day where you're encouraged to just lay it all on the line and say to somebody 'I'm in love with you.'"

Kurt looked less miserable and more like someone hit him in the face with a frying pan. "Really?"

"And I need both your thoughts. I think I'm going to try something kind of radical this year, so I need opinions on this." Blaine looked at me then Kurt. "There's this guy that I—well—that I _like_ and I've only known him a few months, but I want to tell him that I think my feelings are starting to change into something… deeper."

I grinned and reached across the table to hold his hand, since I couldn't hug him. "That's great. I'm really happy for you."

Blaine laughed. "Is it too much to sing to someone on Valentine's Day?"

Kurt, still looking like he was hit with a frying pan, said in a really high voice, "Not at all. No."

"It's sweet," I added. "He'll love it."

Blaine smiled big and tipped his coffee all the way back in his mouth. "I'm going to get a refill. You want any? On the house," he added when Kurt started digging in his pockets.

I nodded. "Yes, please."

Kurt blinked but said, "Sure, a—"

"A medium drip, jumbo hot chocolate with extra cocoa dust and a grande nonfat mocha," said Blaine, getting up. "Got it. Oh, and anyone want to split a Cupid sugar cookie?"

I tried to not look too guilty.

Blaine smiled his nice Blaine smile. "I'll get one of those too." And then he was gone.

Kurt looked back at him as he got in line. "He knows my coffee order," he said dumbly.

I wondered what the big deal was. "He knows mine, too."

Kurt blinked himself out of whatever dumbness he was in. "Honey, yours is _memorable_. Not many teenagers order jumbo hot chocolates with extra cocoa dust. Then again, not many teenagers are like you." And he leaned in to kiss me.

***.***

Just because Blaine was singing his crush a love song on Valentine's week didn't mean that I was waiting for Kurt to sing. He hadn't done something like _I Kissed a Girl_, and even that wasn't fun; it was serious moment and a fun song that he made serious.

Still, when I walked into Glee and Mr. Schuester wrote _LOVE_ on the board in big capital letters with red marker, making a huge heart around them, I had to ask. No one was paying attention anyways. I nearly tripped over some people's bags when I tried to get up the steps to sit by Kurt in the back.

"So for this week's lesson, I want you guys to pick a partner, because you're going to sing them what you think is the world's greatest love song," said Mr. Schuester, grinning like he was a genius. "Find a song that communicates all the things that love means to you."

Tike kissed when he said it, but a lot of people looked really unhappy. Mercedes was one, and then Finn wasn't too happy either, and Artie looked lonely. Finn was probably unhappy because his Jewish Smurfette didn't have a perfect attendance anymore. She hadn't shown up to Glee all week and rumour had it that she was trying to start another musical, like when Tina got that thing from _West Side Story_. Today, she had dropped by and was all snotty in the front row—making it really obvious that she wasn't going to do anything helpful since Kurt beat her.

Finn still got to the front of the class and made a big speech about some kissing booth he was setting up. Not worth it. Santana once showed me how he kissed and no one should pay for that. But when she said it to Finn what Santana called a catfight started, and Rachel said that Santana would be a stripper. That was low and when Santana ran out, crying, I had to follow her—even if it _was_ Valentine's week.

When we got to the hallway, she turned back around and hiss-whispered at me, "Why are you following me?" But before I answered, she hugged me.

"I know I got to sing before, but still, no one in there believes that I deserve to be there," she said into my shoulder between crying and tears. "I mean, I just try to be really, really honest with people when I think that they suck, you know? No one gets it."

I patted her back and we ended up on the floor with Santana against the lockers. I brushed her hair with my fingers. "I do. You're super talented and you never lie to people, and that's always good, and you're really funny, and helpful and nice when you want to be."

"When Berry—!"

"Rachel doesn't deserve to be talked about," I said hard. "Do you really care what she thinks of you? The Santana I like doesn't care _at all_ about what others think and she knows just how awesome she really is."

Then someone came around the corner. It was after school and no one was usually around, but it was some hockey guy with a jersey that looked like a mini dress. He saw me and Santana hugging and smirked, making a little whistle when it was really quiet. Santana heard it and she immediately stood up and straightened out her clothes.

"I'm fine," she said quickly, and she left, probably going to her locker then home.

I walked absently back into Glee and Kurt instantly picked me up and threw me into his hurricane of songs and lyrics and dance beats and choreography and real lined music sheets and thousands of CDs. Not literally, though. But he spread out over a corner and there was so much crap in his little man-bag that it looked like a tornado blew through the choir room.

***.***

"So, was there any reason in particular you wanted me over?" He handed me my diet Pepsi and broke the tab on his own. "Are you sure there isn't any regular in your house?"

I was still scouring YouTube for instrumentals, since sheet music wasn't working for me. "Thanks, and no. Regular soft drinks don't exist in Casa de Hummel."

Blaine made a face and dropped himself beside me on the couch. "Song choice? Since you're my brand new competition," he teased.

I laughed fakely. "Nice try. Regionals are ours and I don't need _my_ competition learning our setlist. No, I wanted to talk to you about Valentine's Day. Mr. Schuester's got a fabulous idea for us to sing love songs. I thought we could help pick each other's, maybe arrange it." I tried not to look him in the eye.

Blaine took a drink and set down his can. "Sure, which song are you looking for Brittany?"

I felt my ears redden slightly. This was originally the song I had planned to come out with before I decided it to be too sappy. Plus, it was very low so it made me sound like a guy, even though I was thinking of changing the key. "The Elvis ballad _Can't Help Falling In Love_."

Blaine nodded, considering. "If you can pull it off, it'll be amazing. Very romantic and heartfelt. Just try not to make it clichéd."

I shrugged. "I'll try. What about your Valentine's serenade?"

"The Warbler Council figured out the arrangement already, so it's going to be Robin Thicke's _When I Get You Alone_. Appropriate and catchy."

I groaned. "That's right, acapella choir. Forgot. That means you have your quote-unquote _instrumental_."

"Having trouble finding a version that's neither old fashioned or awful?" laughed Blaine, leaning over my shoulder as I clicked through videos. I was becoming hyper-aware of how close we were and the smell of his aftershave.

I gulped, trying to breath through my mouth without sounding like a creep. "Yeah. It's difficult."

After a few minutes of online prowling, Blaine stopped me. "Could you sing a few bars with that last one? He's singing it so deep it's hard to picture what you'd sound like. It might clash too much with the guitar."

Now, I could definitely see the point to this. I had been doing the same thing in my head, but this was a situation I wasn't really enjoying. It would either end up with me looking like an idiot (unpleasant), Blaine and I parting on giggling, flirtatious terms (torturous) or kissing him (cheating and immoral).

I turned back, surprised at how far he was leaning over, and said, "Not the best idea, I think."

Too close, way too close. Count-your-eyelashes close. Memorize-your-smile close. Too close for two non-boyfriends—especially when one certainly had a crush on the other and the other might be wanting to serenade the first with _When I Get You Alone,_ a very sexy song.

"Personal space," I whispered, getting my imagination under control.

Blaine blinked and instantly flushed red. "God, I'm sorry. Just—sorry. I'm—sorry."

I put down my laptop and crossed my sitting room to pluck a pitch pipe from the rubble of my desk. I could feel our egos bruising. I blew my starting note and scaled my way higher to the peak, the last "you" at a dog-howling, glass-breaking G5.

Blaine's jaw with each successive note dipped a little lower, even though he listened to me practise my show stopper for the diva off. When I was done he said, "Wow, I thought those notes in the kitchen were like a fluke or something. Incredible."

I curtseyed with my shirt and Blaine picked up his coat, slipping it on over his Warbler's outfit. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said when I was bidding him a good evening, "the Valentine's serenade is this weekend at the Gap. You might wanna come."

"The Gap?" I repeated, tilting my head. "Why the Gap?" It wasn't a bad store and had good deals occasionally, but it was a little bland for my tastes, and Blaine's since he was so fond of my wardrobe.

"The lucky guy is a junior manager." Blaine smiled and got into his car.

I was still standing in the door, trying to make sense of that statement.

"Oh."

I had a strange, sudden urge to call up Mercedes, dig the tub of Ben & Jerry's from the freezer, put on The Exciters and drag a few dozen Kleenex boxes with me downstairs.

Instead, I called Brittany and in a few minutes, her blond ponytail was bobbing around the corner of the street. The touch of her lips washed away any maybe-feelings I had had for Blaine, any memory of him, and closed that book at last.

***.***

"Whatcha thinking about?"

Kurt looked past my head at Finn's big wooden kissing booth. It had a long line of girls and they were all giggling or texting their friends about it.

"I'm thinking that I should wave this"—he pulled out a five dollar bill—"in his face and wonder what he'll do."

I laughed and he kissed me (for free). I was glad we could do these coupley things in the hallways instead of me always having to convince him to break into the choir room during break.

"No," I said firmly. Kurt put the five dollars back in his fake-leather wallet. "That's mean."

"Ooh, hello," said Kurt suddenly, and even higher than normal.

He was looking past me again so I got in front of him. "Hi!"

"No—Finchel meltdown at one o'clock."

"But it's only eleven-thirty…"

Rachel was throwing a bit of a desperate hissy fit, like Charity does when I don't give her food on time. Claws and screechy and mean. I kinda felt bad for Rachel now. She was annoying and always thought she was better but that's only because she was a different kind of better. I was Britney-Brittany better. Kurt was soprano better. Mercedes was Beyonce better. Rachel was Broadway better. We were all different kinds of better but Rachel thought her better was in a better league than our better.

And that was stupid.

Even _I_ knew that.

But now Rachel had no Glee to takeover, no boyfriend to annoy, and no singing to do in front of hundreds of people. All her bad qualities started to take over and you couldn't see that normally she at least _knew_ she was being mean and tried to stop it; she just was mean now, without having all of her other stuff or Santana's awesomeness.

Eventually, almost crying, Rachel left the kissing booth with her head to her tiny boobs and walking slowly.

Kurt flattened the flat collar on his jacket and we went to the choir room for the lunch hour practise. Apparently Mike and Artie had worked out a Valentine's song. I didn't know Artie was dating anyone.

Me and Kurt watched Artie be Michael Jackson and Mike be Michael Jackson's legs as they did _P.Y.T._ I was trying to figure out who Artie was singing to, but he was just looking in the direction of the guys. That was surprising. I had never thought of him like that. You know, dolphin and all.

The song was awesome and fun and singable and danceable, and it was a fantastic way to spend the lunch hour, even if Artie had no sense of fashion and couldn't keep up with Mike Chang.

And then, when the song was over and I couldn't dance in my seat anymore, Tina and… what?... no…

Kurt looked at me. "Did you know?"

Santana had stuck her tongue down Artie's throat. Ew. Artie wasn't bad and he was a good singer, but—really? When Artie had rolled away and the group had kinda split itself up into littler groups, I cornered Santana.

"Since when are you dating Artie? And since when don't you tell me?" I held my little black suspenders just to make sure my hands wouldn't jump out and do something dumb.

Santana gave me one of her Looks. "Since it's none of your business who I'm dating and since Puck decided he'd rather hunt woolly mammoths and spear blue whales than tap this."

"But… you like football players?" I said, unsure of her anymore. But the thing about Puck was true—mean, but true.

"Liked." She dug for her lipstick and smeared her lips with it. There was something weird, like high and fake and whiney, that told me she was trying to tell me something else. "Old news, sister. I could get any guy in the school, but I'd rather have a loser who only has a fraction of the talent that I have and who's just going to end up hurting me." She stood up and put her hands on my shoulders. "Get it?"

"I don't understand fractions."

Santana groaned and sat back down. "I'm trying to make a point. That Kurt is about as right for you as Artie is for me. When you see it, I'll stop being gross and I'll leave him alone and you could come over."

Now I got it and I didn't like it at all. Maybe the coming over part, but nothing else. "Artie's nice and I hope you two are happy together, because you deserve to be happy any way that makes you happy," I said as quickly and as meanly as I could and went back over to Kurt and smiled and listened when he talked about love songs and Valentine's and the Gap, even though all I could think about was getting this big, hard, cold rock out of my tummy.

***.***

"That is quite a head of hair."

"It's like blond cotton candy," Brittany added.

Blaine smirked but didn't take his dopey, puppy-dog eyes off the blond folding sweaters in the far corner of the Lima Mall's branch of the Gap. "His name is Jeremiah," whispered Blaine dreamily. The Warblers started placing themselves strategically around the shop. "If he and I got married, the Gap would give me a fifty percent discount."

If they got married, much better things than discounts would happen. Naturally, I didn't say that, or list the other benefits.

Blaine suddenly broke eye contact with the back of Jeremiah's head and looked nearly frantic. "This is insane. I don't know what I'm doing!" He looked at me desperately. "We haven't even really gone out on a date. W-we shouldn't do this."

I just barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes. I pushed him towards the center arrangement of mannequins. "Come on, man up. You're amazing. He's gonna love you."

Standing there awkwardly for a few seconds, Blaine cued David behind him and navy blazers and red ties started to pop out of the woodwork—from behind sunglass displays, tables of t-shirts, between the hangers, popping up in front of the honeycombed jean stackers—they were everywhere. I started to get anxious when Jeremiah started to back away, stabbing buttons on his headset, and Blaine pursued him. The serenade was lovely and romantic, and shoppers were an even mix of "aw" and "dance time!", even the other staff enjoyed it. Although whether it was their co-worker's humiliation or the song that made them smile, I couldn't be sure.

The cash registers had stopped running and every person in the store stared at the all-boys choir as they paraded around in the very orderly, professionally choreographed routine they had practised. It was elaborate and Blaine was spun on t-shirt stands and jacket racks, looking every inch the charismatic frontman, and everyone was enjoying themselves—except Jeremiah.

When the song was over, the Warblers casually broke formation and Brittany and I ducked out to meet at a bench outside the store.

Blaine came, his hands stuck in his pockets, and sat down hard. "Was it too much?" he worried. I gave him a look and Brittany kept her lips fastened on a straw sticking out of an Italian soda. "It was too much," concluded Blaine.

A few minutes later, a very dejected Jeremiah came out of the Gap with his hood up. "What the hell were you doing?"

Oh, it was _painful_ to watch this rejection. Lost his job, lost his pride, lost his closet, Jeremiah was pissed and in a disbelieving shock. Blaine also hadn't really mentioned that Jeremiah was twenty. Ouch.

Blaine's entire posture loosened and leaned forward, ducking his head and lowering his jaw. "I guess you guys can go now," he said sadly.

Brittany's Italian soda finally made an empty sucking sound and she started gnawing on the straw. "Nuh-uh. We're going shopping, and then we're going to get coffee, and then you're going to be happy." She was so serious that even Blaine cracked a smile.

Brittany stood up and linked arms with Blaine, dragging him back in the mall.

After an agonising half hour of walking around and going in and out of random stores, dragging around a miserable Blaine, who outright refused to contribute to our shopping, we pulled him into a coffee shop and his mood darkened even more as we lined up.

He eyed a stack of customised red and pink coffee mugs with disgust. "Don't they have anything here that isn't covered with stupid little hearts? Ugh. Gross."

"You've certainly changed your tune," I said dryly. I thought I should have had to push down a feeling of joyous anticipation, as though I had a shot with Blaine now that his crush had rejected him. But there was nothing to suppress.

"I don't think I've _ever_ made _that_ big a fool of myself," spat Blaine, turning around to properly convey his disgust, "which is really saying something, because I've performed at theme parks."

"I've seen you there! At the Wonky Vonky Fair!" said Brittany excitedly. I put a hand on Brittany's shoulder and held back a smirk at imagining Blaine in the Wonky Vonky rabbit outfit.

"I just…" Blaine shuffled forward in line. "I can't believe I made it all up in my head."

I wanted to say "I know what you mean", but stopped myself. I had made an entire forbidden romance up in my head, when Blaine couldn't care less about his bisexual friend with a blond girlfriend who lived on the other side of town. The truth was, Brittany was here, Blaine wasn't. I knew I loved her, and there was no guarantee of what I could have with Blaine.

I moved my hand from Brittany's shoulder to her hip.

"Accordion to Santana and Kurt and all my friends, I make up a lot of stuff. Or at least the things aren't real and I say and think that they are. Is that the same? I'm not really sure, but one time, I thought that Lord Tubbington…"

***.***

Ke$ha was playing. Then it turned into Katy Perry. And then it was Jay-Z. Santana's radio didn't have the annoying DJ yet, and he hardly ever said anything. I think he knew that Santana would pry the back out and cut out his tongue if he talked too much.

Santana had her tight jeans back on and her shirt and her bra and her panties on. She was sitting cross-legged in front of her mirror, brushing out her hair so that it was straight again.

I didn't really have the energy to get up. I was tired and kinda sore, but it was a nice kind of sore. The kind of sore that you want again and again. My head was all fuzzy, but I wasn't drunk. Santana's bed was so comfy and warm and her sheets were smooth and soft, and her whole room smelled like her perfume. Spicy and apple-y and sharp—nothing like Kurt, totally different, but still completely nice.

And Santana was really pretty. Her hair was starting to get straight again, and even if I couldn't see them from where I was, her eyes were really dark and warm and I felt really warm when I looked into them. Almost like with Kurt. Not really, just kind of. But whenever I tried to get Santana to talk about us, or even if there was an us, she just changed the subject, or got mean and left the room, or kissed me and kept going, or ignored me, and then she always closed herself off to me for a day or two. She didn't like talking about feelings, even if the feelings were so good.

I couldn't understand why I couldn't have a girlfriend and a boyfriend. You could only cheat on a boy with another boy, and you could only cheat on a girl with another girl, and I hadn't even kissed another boy since I was with Kurt, or another girl since Santana and I started… whatever she wanted to call this.

Santana didn't want to be my girlfriend. I had asked her about it, but she didn't want to, even in private. But I still thought of her as my girlfriend. We talked and had fun, and kissed and I loved her and she loved me, and that was a girlfriend to me.

She stood up and dropped the hairbrush. It bounced off her table and disappeared behind a stack of CDs. She picked up all my clothes and threw them on her bed beside me.

"Time to get dressed," she said, not looking at me. Sometimes she got like this after we had fun. I knew I shouldn't argue, so I put all my clothes back on and I left. I had to go to Kurt's. He wanted to talk to me about something. Something about Blaine and the Warblers.

***.***

When I opened the door, Brittany's friendly smile grew to meet me. I stepped away and she followed me downstairs, as per usual.

I wasn't sure what was up, but something was definitely off. Brittany was hardly meticulous about her appearance, but her normally uniformly wavy hair was prickled with rogue, staticky hairs and she had none-too-carefully removed her make-up. There was also some scent muddying the strawberry cloud that surrounded her on a daily basis. It was familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"What's going on?" Brittany kicked off her little sneakers and tucked her legs under her bottom, picking up my new copy of_ VOGUE_ and flipping through the glossy pictures.

"The Warblers are going to be performing a few classic love songs at the Lima Bean on Valentine's weekend." I sat down beside her. "I'll be MC-ing, and I want you to be my date."

She gave me a weird look. "I thought you were always my date for things like this."

I considered it. "Comes with the territory of 'boyfriend', I suppose."

Brittany leaned her head in my shoulder and dropped the magazine back to the glass coffee table. I brushed and flattened her hair with my fingers. Tomorrow, we were both going to perform our love songs. We were going last, since Tina's breakdown and the others were ditching this assignment due to a lack of love in their lives.

Brittany looked up at me and gave me an upside down smile. I kissed her forehead firmly, and she turned so she was facing me.

"What's your song?" she said innocently, playing with the top button on my shirt.

I tried to get my heart rate to calm down. This close, she would definitely hear it. "You can hear it tomorrow," I promised. "It's not a big dancey song, but I think you'll like it. It's very straightforward. What about yours?" I ran my hand down her back and she pushed even closer to me.

Her smile widened. "You'll _love_ mine. I can't wait for you to see it." Her smile turned curious and she leaned even closer, but she didn't kiss me. "You know, you have really long eyelashes." I laughed and looked away. "Like girl-eyelashes."

I gave her a sceptical look. "Sure. Thank you, I think."

"Long eyelashes are pretty," she assured me, kissing me. "I really love you," she said against my lips.

"Love you, too."

"So much?"

"So much."

"I love you even more."

I didn't answer that one. I didn't want us to turn into _that_ kind of couple. That would be horrendous. Sweet—but horrendous.

***.***

I raised my hand. "Mr. Schuester, if I may?"

"The floor is yours, Kurt," said Mr. Schuester. He sounded almost a little bit weary. No doubt the teenage drama was starting to get to him. Mono and cheating and backstabbing.

I crossed the floor and looked at the half-empty Glee Club. Finn, Quinn, and Rachel were all missing; the first two sick, and the latter having abandoned the club altogether. Her replacement, Lauren Zizes, sat uncomfortably close to Puck.

I had worn a special red-themed outfit for my Valentine's love song. Ice black tie on a stark white shirt, and tight dark wash jeans, but the star piece was my self-tailored cherry red corduroy blazer—albeit, it was for a woman, but with my careful tailoring, it fit like a glove and Brittany loved the feel of the material.

"This week for the world's greatest love song, I've chosen a classic that's nearly fifty years old and has been covered most recently by a Mr. Michael Bublé." I suddenly felt very self-conscious and I felt colour flood my cheeks.

I turned to the band. "If you will…"

The string quartet pulled out the melody that had become so familiar to me that I had been singing it in my sleep. As the introduction played, I sat at the piano and tried hard to remember the overly complicated piece I had constructed. Why did I overthink things?

_Easy, Kurt. You think you're good at romance._

No, I'm not.

I nearly forgot to sing, but suddenly the strings kicked in hard and I had to start. In the end, I had decided to sing in my natural key, aiming a touch higher than I normally would, still dipping down into what I called my "butch voice" to round out the phrases. But there still needed to be a rounded tone to my voice, rounding the vowels—almost British, really.

I was singing to the piano, almost reluctant to look up and see everyone's faces.

_"Wise men say only fools rush in  
>But I can't help falling in love with you<em>

_"Shall I stay, would it be a sin?  
>If I can't help falling in love with you<em>

There was barely a breath between the phrases, or even the verses, to be honest. I finally dared to look at Brittany. Thank God she sat in the front row. I was scared my fingers would slip; I was nearly as nervous as when I came out.

_"Like a river flows surely to the sea  
>Darling, so it goes<br>Some things are just meant to be_

I think I was trying to do too many things. Looking at Brittany, avoiding looking at the others, playing an overly complicated piano piece I had only put together a few days ago, singing with a wider range than I was accustomed to, and, obviously, not being distracted by the strings or my own emotions—which were a strange mix of embarrassment and love.

_"Take my hand  
>Take my whole life too<br>For I can't help falling in love with you_

_"Shall I stay, would it be a sin?  
>If I can't help falling in love with you<em>

A brief piano solo that drifted into nothingness followed the ear-bleeding, heartbreaking, dog-howling, trailing off _you_.

Standing ovations, but as soon as the first clap was heard, I felt Brittany slide across the piano bench to envelope me in a massive hug. When she kissed me, her eyes were wet and her smile was beautiful.

"You were right. That was straightforward," she said quietly. If she moved much closer, she would be sitting on my lap.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said.

The private moment was gone, however, when Mr. Schuester started congratulating me on my remake of the old classic. Believe it, it wasn't done lightly, especially since there were no helpful remixes online.

And I didn't know how to play a string instrument.

Brittany actually did sit on my lap when we got back to our seats, even though there were no more presentations until hers after school. I got a few pats on the back and complements for the touching song. I still wasn't sure if I was meant to be nervous or excited. All I knew was that I was relieved that I hadn't messed up mine.

***.***

The remainder of the school day passed easily. Mercedes and I spent most of it together, and what I couldn't spend with Mercedes I did with Brittany. Except for French, neither of them took that.

"I'm still shocked how different you two are," said Mercedes when we were at her locker. Brittany had disappeared, most likely preparing for her own performance.

"How so?" I knew she was talking about Britts.

"Well, your song was classically romantic and very subtle. Beautiful, actually." She threw her textbooks in her locker and reapplied her lip gloss in the tiny magnetic mirror she had.

"Thanks."

"And Brittany's, whatever that's going to be, you can bet it won't be subtle. It's gonna be loud, pretty boy," she said, looking at me almost threateningly.

I forced myself to laugh. I had been thinking about it all day, and the only conclusion I had come to was that, whatever it was, I didn't want it to be sexual. That might be… awkward, to say the least.

"She's using the auditorium," I said nonchalantly.

Mercedes understood my meaning. "That's gonna be one hell of a show."

"Mmmhmmm."

She closed her locker at last and said, "C'mon, then, the auditorium it is."

I nearly expected Katy Perry-esque fruit to be on stage, but the curtains were closed, and the majority of the Glee Club filled its front rows. I relaxed marginally, but was still tempted to go backstage and check exactly how loud we were talking.

Mercedes and I took seats beside Tina and Mike Chang. Mercedes held my hand and looked semi-seriously into my eyes. "It's going to be okay," she said overly dramatically, and I wrenched my hand away, as my nerves built.

The next ten minutes were the longest of my life. Mr. Schuester eventually went backstage to check on her, but came back and said that everything was fine. She was just taking a few minutes. I sat up straighter, preparing to slink back down, and half-wishing I had sat in the front, so I couldn't see people turning around to look at me.

"Down in front, Hummel," I heard a familiar voice say.

Santana was behind me, sitting low in her chair, her legs crossed with one expensive boot on the back of my armrest. "I can't see now," she added with a smirk.

And then I smelled the same perfume that was on Brittany the other day. Sharp apple, it had a funny name like _eternity_ or _eternal_, something like that. It was Santana's. Brittany never wore perfume, so she would hardly borrow her friend's if she didn't have any more. Her scent came from the childish, brightly coloured shampoo and hair products.

I stared at Santana for a good three minutes before she gave me one of her queen Looks. "I know you've got a think for my Brittany, but are you seriously trying to look up my dress?"

I frowned, then did what any normal guy (straight or gay) would've done: I checked if I actually good. I couldn't, but Santana kicked me in the head and I edged lower in my seat.

I brushed the dirt from her boot out of my hair, thinking. _…my Brittany…_

And then my train of thought immediately crashed and burned. The curtains opened and Brittany stepped out wearing a bright blue leopard-print dress with a hot pink sash and a ruffled bottom that ended somewhere around her knees. There were a pair of pink high heels that matched the sash around her waist. The background was a solid lime green board.

"Oh, God," I whispered, sinking even lower.

"So, I think the world's greatest love song is something that describes how you really feel inside when you're with them," said Brittany, smiling at me.

I was still staring at her hair. There was a thick neon blue headband, with glued on feathers. Her gold hair was loose around her shoulders… that headband… The look was a little Katy Perry, and my mind started to run through the songs I would hate to have sung. _Peacock_ had to top the list, then probably _Ur So Gay_, and _Last Friday Night_. And all the break-up or sad romance songs. Oh, God, _Peacock_…

"Hope you enjoy it," she finished, and she turned around to go back to the center. She did a thumbs-up to someone side stage and then the horrible sound of _Peacock_ filled the room.

"_I wanna see your peacock-cock_—"

"I thought I said track eleven!" shouted Brittany, trotting side stage. I could almost see her stab the _next track_ button.

The Club laughed it off, but I felt myself turn beet red. Not the best start. I tried to remember what track eleven was.

Then Brittany reappeared, grinning. "Everything's okay," she said. She waited in the middle for the intro to finish. It seemed relatively harmless, singing electronic beats that might turn into a ballad—

I spoke too soon. All of a sudden, a poppy guitar came in and Brittany started dancing. She was a great dancer, and I knew the song, and I hoped that people wouldn't pay attention to the lyrics. It was sweet, but I was a little uncomfortable.

_"You make me feel like I'm losing my virginity  
>The first time every time when you're touching me<br>I'll make you bloom like a flower that'ch'you never seen  
>Under the sun we are one blossomed energy<em>

Brittany had clearly worked really hard on this. Half the Cheerios came in, old friends, or at least the moderately nice ones who hadn't dumped her and Santana completely. They were all dressed similarly to Brittany, in bright coloured dresses and high heels, and danced beside or behind her. I had to admire them for dancing in heels, though. There was a lot of arms and legs and bodies twisting and hip-raising. I truthfully knew next to nothing about dancing, but I thought it was fantastic.

_"Let's pollinate to create a family tree  
>This evolution with you comes naturally<br>Some call it science, we call it chemistry  
>This is the story of the birds and the bees"<em>

I was so glad that Brittany had picked not only a fun song, but also a song she could sing easily while dancing. The high notes weren't too high and the belting was more similar to shouting with tone than anything else.

_"And even when seasons change, our love still stays the same  
>You give me that hummingbird heartbeat<br>You spread my wings and make me fly  
>The taste of your honey is so sweet<br>When you give me that hummingbird heartbeat  
>Hummingbird heartbeat<em>

_"Ah ah, hummingbird heartbeat  
>Ah ah, hummingbird heartbeat"<em>

And that's when I realised that some of the Cheerios were backing singers. They were good, and the whole production was very cute. Brittany had a chance to do what she did best, and what she wanted to do most, and there were few times I had seen her happier.

_"I've flown a million miles just to find the magic seed  
>Oh, what flower with the power to bring life to me<br>You're so exotic, my whole body fluttering  
>Constantly craving for a taste of your sticky-sweet<em>

Even if the lyrics were consistently making me feel embarrassed and a little awkward, it was worth it. I wasn't even sure if Brittany was aware that the whole song was about sex. The whole Club loved it, though, and applauded whenever Brittany and the girls pulled off a particularly difficult move.

Brittany broke away from the pack and sang the last verse to me specifically. I mean, the whole song was dedicated to me, but she came to the very edge of the stage. I felt bad that I was still looking at the feathers, which were now waving as she moved.

_"Always on the brink of a heart attack  
>You give me life and keep me coming back<br>I see the sunrise in your eyes, your eyes  
>We've got a future full of blue skies, blue skies<em>

Then she fell back in synch with the rest of the dancers, having the chance to belt once more. Honestly, she sounded quite a lot better than Katy Perry had.

_"You love me, you love me,  
>Never love me not, not<br>I know when we were in perfect harmony, you make me sound like  
>Like a symphony, oh<em>

_"Spread my wings and make me fly  
>The taste of your honey is so sweet<br>When you give me that hummingbird heartbeat  
>Hummingbird heartbeat<br>Hummingbird heartbeat"_

The Glee Club sang the last _hummingbird heartbeat_ with Brittany, as the dancers all stayed in the pose for another few seconds. As the Cheerios filed off stage left, Brittany stood with her hands on her hips and said, "Oh, and in case anyone didn't know, that was dedicated to my boyfriend Kurt. Bye bye." And she, too, ran off stage to put her regular clothes on.

Mercedes gave me a look. "It was very Brittany," she said, grinning.

I had to agree with that.

"I could see you squirming with every mention of sticky-sweet honey—"

I tried not to laugh. "Shut up."

Mercedes nudged me. "I thought you were giving me the down-low on your relationship."

"Shut up, and that was only if we had sex." When I snuck a look at Mercedes, she was staring at me, half-turned in her seat with her eyebrow raised. "No!" I instantly blushed and I knew this wouldn't be something Mercedes would forget easily. I guess I should've been thankful that we actually _could_ joke about this, but I wasn't. I felt like I would kill to stop the teasing, even though I knew I would've done the same to her.

I sighed, and started to tune her out. I was just starting to get relaxed, when I heard a familiar screech and I smiled.

"Did you like it?" Brittany asked, holding my hand on the armrest.

"Loved it," answered Mercedes. "Kurt was all over it."

I nodded and tried to act normal. "It was loads of fun and you guys did such a good job with the choreography. That was the best part."

Brittany kissed me. "I thought we needed fun, since everyone's besides the Michael Jackson one was slow and wonderful and sweet, but we needed dancey things."

"And that's where you come in," I said.

"You're coming to the Lonely Hearts Club dinner at Breadstix?" said Mercedes.

Brittany nodded enthusiastically. I discreetly put my arm around her and tucked in the tags sticking out of her shirt. "It can be like one massive group date. It'll be so much fun."

I coughed, grateful for the change of subject. "I must go set up now, so would you two lovely ladies accompany and assist my own wonderful self?" I said loftily. "There'll be free cookies and coffee," I sang after a moment.

"I'm in," both of them said at once.

At least I wouldn't be alone. Well, I guess I wouldn't ever _really _be alone. Not anymore. And I suppose I did feel a little proud, deep down, that Brittany thought I gave her a hummingbird heartbeat.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>So, the SantanaBrittany realisation will be soon. I promise. I've deliberately set that up. If there's anything funky with the formatting, I'm sorry. Sometimes my computer does that.**

**My exams are coming up and this update is another thing I must apologize for. I believe the quality has gone down, and I know it took forever to write. That's partly because of finding perfect love songs for them to sing to each other and partly because I've caught the flu... twice... in 2 weeks. I didn't think that was impossible.  
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**I'll be back... soon. Promise.  
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**Compliments and complaints are always appreciated.  
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**And, since Regionals and Nationals are coming up, are there any specific songs you'd like to see?  
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	13. Blame It on the Blue Top

**Disclaimer**: Hopefully they won't do the same thing again with the next crop, but they didn't set themselves up for anything good. Poor Glee. Never ever mine.

**This is my adaption of the episodes s02e13: Comeback and s02e14 Blame It on the Alcohol.  
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**Now, BIOTA is a legendary Glee episode if only because half of us loved it and half of us hated it. I'm part of the side that loved it (other than their portrayal of bisexuality with Blaine, that was heinous). Comeback was nothing special to me, so I combined them.**

**I'm very fond of the work I've done here. I think there was a lot of good parts, so enjoy.  
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* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

I yawned, exhausted, and dropped my baby's keys—my Escalade, not Britts—on a hook and went downstairs. Mr. Schuester had surrendered control of the star ballad for Regionals to me and Brittany, a song that was meant to take us from a heartfelt ballad to a dance number was going to be done by the boys and we were meant to decide among ourselves who would be lead (needless to say, a leader was yet to be determined), and the group dance number was Mercedes's and she had picked me to be her opposite. She was thinking Destiny's Child, I was thinking Broadway—things weren't going well. When we did _4 Minutes_ for the Cheerios, we had just been given the song and—

"What the hell are you doing here?"

I stopped on the platform of my stairs, staring at the two girls sitting on my couch.

Rachel gave me a blank, carefully guarded look, and turned back to Brittany. Brittany waved and smiled tightly. She was wearing the most bizarre set of clothes, and this was Brittany. Checked red and black capris pants, a reindeer sweater, designer sneakers and thick woolly leg warmers.

"Are you sure?" asked Rachel, all business.

Brittany nodded. "Positive." She stuck her legs out and tapped her shoes together, admiring the lime green leg warmers.

"Here's a few more." Rachel handed Brittany pink, blue and red sets of leg warmers before standing up and brusquely walking out without another word. "Kurt," she said in a stiff voice.

I followed her upstairs and quickly put a hand on the door to stop her leaving. "What're doing?"

Rachel swung her coat over her shoulders. "I'm rebuilding my failed career with no man or back-up band to hold me back." She stared straight ahead. When I didn't say anything, the silence pressured her. "That was mean," she whispered.

I decided to ignore her momentary lapse into becoming Captain Obvious. "You do what you think you need to do. Just try to keep in mind that no matter what we mud we sling at each other, we're still friends." I opened the door for her.

"Thanks," she said quietly, leaving with short little steps.

I went back downstairs. "Leg warmers?"

Brittany was bent in half, trying to pull them off her legs, over her sneakers. Groaning, she turned onto her back and pulled hard, but only managed to get them halfway off. Breathing hard, she looked at me and pleaded, "Help?"

I took one of her tightly done-up tennis shoes in my lap and got them off quickly.

"Rachel thinks she can start a fashion trend and jet-start her Broadway musical, acting career, and I wanted to wait here for you," said Brittany. "_And_ leg warmers are comfy cozy."

I dropped her shoes on the bottom shelf of my coffee table.

"If I could get up, I'd pull you down here to my level," said Brittany in a lower voice, with a not-so-innocent smile. Her hand reached out to my hip, playing with my belt loop.

I felt blood rush north to my face and south to my… well… "Even if Finn's upstairs, sleeping off his mono?" I managed.

"Sure. Why not?" Brittany smiled lazily, her hand now tracing slow circles.

I couldn't think of a single reason why not right then. I took her hand and raised it to my waist instead, moving on top of her. I just hoped Dad wouldn't be coming downstairs any time soon.

***.***

"Let her speak."

"Oh dear God."

"When did Justin Bieber dye his hair blond?" I tapped Kurt. His eyebrows were way in his hair, and he was even paler than usual. Today in Glee, we had two special guest: Blond Bieber, and Coach Sue, and no one liked either of them. I kinda felt bad for them, but even worse for Kurt, who now had to find ant's pants.

"That's Trouty Mouth," said Santana from my other side.

"No way," I said. I put up my arm-warmer arms and waved when Sam started to dance awesomely. Really smooth, just like Blaine and his Warblers, he was cool.

Even if the song was _Baby._ At least it had lyrics I knew. And I had to feel his blond Bieber hair. It was kinda crusty, like with that awesome foam or spray or whipped cream.

Quinn liked the song and so did the rest of us girls. But the guys were bored, because they didn't get that this was so cool and awesome and cute.

Then the Bieber fever calmed down and everyone started to go their own ways. Mercedes and Kurt started arguing with Mercedes's laptop between them; Tina put headphones in and was searching her iPod; Mike was dancing and the others were doing homework. Santana took my hand and held it up. I got a little excited, but she was looking at my arm-warmers.

"These are actually kind of cute—I mean, in a dumb, crazy Brittany fashion kind of way," she said quickly.

"Thanks," I said.

She picked at the arm-warmers and smiled at me. "Very cute."

"Thanks."

"Britts?" Kurt called. Santana instantly let go of my arm. "Do you think you could dance to this, or is it too bare?"

A small, steady beat come from Mercedes's computer, with some lyrics and voices.

"That's okay," I said, smiling back at them and shaking my shoulders. "It sounds awesome." When I looked back, Santana was running out the door, with Artie rolling after her. I wasn't sure why, but something inside me was really sad.

***.***

"If there's any chance of us doing a spectacular duet again, we simply must improve your voice." I paced in front of Brittany, and couldn't help feeling that I was looking like a trainer at bootcamp. "We have three weeks until Regionals and each and every day, we will be working on your range, power and breath control."

Brittany looked up at me blankly. "So, we're not going to eat lunch anymore?"

"After," I promised. "Now, just from dancing and singing back-up, you already have good breath control, but we need to check if it translates to belting—those big notes at the top," I added at her confused look.

Turns out, not all that well. We hung out in the choir room the entire lunch hour, practising scales, belting, and refining her technique. Truthfully, her voice wasn't very developed and with less than a month until Regionals, my expectations were sinking fast.

Still, I congratulated her when she completed a scale and hugged her when she held a note that shone with tone. Brittany was so excited and hungry after we were finished that I thought she would eat _me_.

Not having to drink that vomiting mixture for the Cheerios anymore, Brittany's appetite had increased exponentially. While we ate, I made some stupid joke and Britt laughed and put her hand on my leg. It was further north than I was used to and I discreetly moved it away, crossing it over.

I chewed my salad ("rabbit food") thoughtfully. Our physical relationship had reached a plateau, and I was perfectly fine with it. Making out, touching, that was fine with me—great, in fact—but I couldn't shake the feeling that Brittany wanted to go "down there" again. Even though all I had to do was lie there and enjoy it, I was still very self-conscious. Brittany had slept with half the school, and that probably meant that sex meant very little to her. I didn't want this to be one-sided emotionally. Additionally, she had been with a lot of big, strong guys who were nearly a foot taller and used to throw me into dumpsters with their colossal muscles. I had spent much of my life both literally and figuratively in the shadows of guys like these and I hated that without them even being there, I was letting them impact my first taste of true happiness.

"Did you figure out a song for us to do yet?" asked Brittany, shaking the dark thoughts from my head.

I nodded, smiling secretly at her. "You'll see later. It's hard to sing and I want to make sure we can both sing it first." I kissed her on the cheek and picked up my bag. "See you later, love."

Brittany hugged me tight and kissed me again before letting me leave.

Feeling good about my lunchtime teachings, I wandered absently to my next class, which was Home Ec. with Mercedes. The moment I arrived, Mercedes practically flew from her desk to me. Her hands were clenched in fists and her eyes narrowed in fury.

"Have you seen Berry?" she hissed at me.

I backed up instinctively. "N-no. What's happened?"

Mercedes grabbed me by my arm and let out a groan of frustration. "She said that I'm not as talented as her. Little Miss I'm Too Good For Glee dared to say that me, when I'm putting in my dues and pushing get even better than I already am when _she_ sits on her tiny ass, crunching her vegan lunches, when _we_ work hard, that I don't have the talent to make it."

She pushed me into my chair. The momentum of my swinging bag almost knocked me off the stool.

"Rachel—" I could hardly say that she didn't mean it; she might've. "She didn't mean to hurt you," I said instead. Withering under Mercedes's glare, I added, "Probably."

"She's always dismissed us, like we're beneath her—"

"But she's not malicious. She didn't mean harm when she said it—"

"She _knew_ I was getting a solo when she wasn't going to—"

"So? She hasn't come after any of the others."

"Which just means that she sees me as competition." Mercedes's eyes glistened, whether it was tears of frustration of the sheen of mania I couldn't tell. "You said that she told you that you were her competition."

"Just don't start a useless vendetta that will serve no one," I warned.

The lights were flicked off and Mercedes kept up her ranting at me in the dark, edging her stool closer. The class was partly illuminated by the plastic sheets of notes that were put on the ancient projector.

"Why not? I met up with her a few minutes ago and she didn't even try to deny it! I thought we were getting to be friends. But we're not teammates anymore, and, Kurt, you've gotta understand defending your talent. I'm just wanting another diva-off." In the off-colour glow, Mercedes looked at me pleadingly.

I scribbled down notes quickly, trying to look like a half-decent student. "Sure. Diva-off. You set it up, though. Just don't inflict any lasting damage on Berry. This war will never end if you _completely_ destroy her ego." I smirked.

***.***

The Justin Bieber Experience was kinda hot and really awesome. I told Kurt this, but he just nodded and kept scribbling on some notebook before asking me to sing these wooo_ooooo_oooo_oooo_oooo things with the piano. The Woo's went high and I felt myself get all thin and whispy, and not even in the good way Kurt's voice did. Then it got so low that my voice lost that awesome ringing thing it did.

Kurt crossed something out on his book. "Fantastic." I couldn't tell if he was doing that meanly funny thing—sarcastic, that was it. I didn't know if he was sarcastic.

He sat down on his small couch, so I thought it would be okay if I did, too. "We still need an anthem," he sighed. He put his arm around the back of the couch.

I knew that anthem wasn't really an ant hem. I had my doubts, but that's what Kurt said. "Uh huh. I think Britney is pretty anthemic."

He smiled slowly, like he was tired. "I think Brittany is pretty anthemic, too."

I frowned, but then I got it and kissed him on the cheek. "So is Kurt."

His smile grew and he moved his lips to mine. "We need to start working on the song soon," he said softly.

"Later."

I tried to think about whether I liked Santana more than Kurt, specifically kissing them and doing other stuff.

I hadn't done much else with Kurt; only once a week did he let me touch him under his tight pants, but it felt like more—inside, it felt like so much more. Something really deep inside me loved being with him, but I thought that was just because he let me love him and I let him love me, the feelings and stuff in my heart made it better.

Was it really Santana's fault if we didn't have the chance to do those feelings? Kind of, I guess. I knew she loved me and I loved her, it was just that we didn't act like girlfriends, just friends, and we couldn't do all that extra stuff that couples do.

In real life, Kurt bent his arms into weird angles so he didn't have to stop kissing me when he took his jacket off.

I knew most people only had one partner, but most people weren't bicorns, but deep down I knew I would be upset if Kurt was with Blaine when he was my boyfriend. It wouldn't be cheating, but I wouldn't feel right. I'd be hurt. That was the whole _one and only_-thing, I guess. It made me more special to him. But did that mean that Kurt was less special to me if I was with Santana?

My head was hurting.

I didn't think so, but there were lots of things that I thought were wrong that were actually right. Like that whipped cream wasn't the only thing that came out of a _hissy_ can. If this special rule was only Kurt's, then why wasn't I included? Why was I so different? I guess I wasn't.

Kurt pulled me by my hips so that I was sitting on him. I squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable, and finally he broke the kiss to make those sounds. He opened his eyes and all I could see was this awesome guy who loved me and who I was lying to—I was trying to make sure he didn't find out, that was lying, right?—and I knew that he really didn't deserve that. He went through a lot of stuff for me.

Right there, right then, I decided that I would stop thinking of Santana as my girlfriend. I would stop caring what she thought about me, unless it was to do with being friends. And then I thought about Kurt having sex with Blaine and I decided that I'd stop having that kind of fun with Santana, too.

Kurt didn't ever need to know that I had had a girlfriend. And Santana never wanted to admit _she_ was my girlfriend, so that's that.

And I went back to reality and kissing Kurt.

***.***

Right up until the minute their battle begun, Mercedes spam-texted me with pleads for songs, complaints about Rachel's unwillingness to compromise, and catching me up on her bitch-it-out with Rachel.

Mercedes was clearly furious, her fingertips paling as they gripped the piano. Rachel looked almost alien at the front of the room, but she acted as though it was merely yesterday I had beaten her and she had left the Club.

"After much argument, I finally convinced Mercedes that in order to do a proper diva-off, it has to come from the Broadway catalogue. Which, I think, is safe to say that that gives me home field advantage." Rachel smiled benignly.

"Oh well, you're about to get beat on your own turf—again," Mercedes said cattily.

Rachel's smile froze, then fell completely and she snapped, "Hit it."

"She can't stand not being best," said Brittany gleefully from beside me, leaning forward. Today, as the day before, she was dressed in a very Rachel-like way, a schoolgirl type outfit with her own twists. I'm sure Rachel wore her skirts longer and her sweaters less form fitting.

I was very concerned about the diva-off. Even though Rachel was off balance and I could sing _Take Me or Leave Me_ in my sleep after hearing it several times a day, Mercedes wasn't used to singing Broadway and Rachel was determined to "prove herself". Both things could prove to be Mercedes's undoing.

It started off just as brutal and cutthroat as mine with Rachel, and then as before, they reached an equilibrium between them. It went from bad to worse. They were equally good. There was no clear winner.

They ended up on opposite ends of the room. Lightning bolts were nearly shooting out of their eyes, and the animosity crackled between them. To set the record straight, I voted for Rachel to win because I knew she would never, could never come back if she was humiliated twice by the only people she considered competition.

But my vote was in vain. Mercedes won and Rachel stormed out to the sound of congratulatory cheers. Mr. Schuester shook his head, sighing and looking very disappointed. Sylvester was exactly the opposite, there was a strange expression of victory on her.

It also didn't help that within the week, Brittany's Rachel look appeared on my next _VOGUE_ subscription, with several different colours and variations on half a dozen different models with an interview from Brittany in the original crimson outfit.

Her voice, her infinitely tacky style, all Rachel's individuality had been sapped from her and now even her catty ambition was fading. It might not have been my place but I decided to try and get her back.

The next lunch hour I could find her, I took the seat opposite her in the cafeteria. She was meekly eating an apple, with the contents of a some-assembly-required Caesar salad around her. She barely looked up when I sat across her. Her hair wasn't even straightened and her subtle make-up was unbalanced; her left eye was outlined far more than her right.

"Here to brag, Hummel? Congratulations, you've eliminated your competition." She went back to the apple.

My prepared speech left me for the moment and I groaned. "It's not a competition, Rachel."

She dropped the apple and her eyebrows shot up. She laughed, sounding only slightly maniacal. "Oh yeah? You and Brittany are the new star couple, you're getting all the solos, and the Club is taking your direction. How is that not winning? And how am I _not_ a loser? No boyfriend, no showcase for my talent, nowhere to be and nothing to do."

"You pretty much just described the rest of us when we stood in the back and swayed to you and Finn belting it out, when our lines consisted of _oh_ and _ah_." I let that sink in a minute, debating whether or not to leave in case she decided that she was being insulted.

Rachel gave me a pitiful look. She didn't tear her eyes away from me for a long time. "Really?"

I nodded, trying not to look too enthusiastic.

For nearly a full five minutes, Rachel didn't say anything. I wondered if this was her subtle way of telling me to go. Just as I was about to stand up and slink away… "I'm sorry." She sounded like she couldn't believe it herself. I knew that was not some prepared speech, not a long calculated _do what I say right now_ manipulation. This was Rachel, truly apologizing, feeling bad for what she had done.

"I know," was all I needed to say.

The next day when I arrived at Glee Club, Rachel was sitting dutifully in the corner, legs crossed and head high, but her eyes were lowered to the ground.

***.***

"You know Finn and Rachel are going to get back together just in time for Regionals so they can sing the first song together?" I looked hard at Kurt. Just a few minutes ago, Finn had been with Rachel and they were talking quietly and they were close. He was probably saying that her idea to write original songs was good. It wasn't. It was terrible.

Kurt ignored my look and shrugged. "Most likely." He edged up onto his toes to throw his French textbook onto a shelf. "But I'm not letting them take it. We can win without a Finchel lead. Plus, I think _SING_ would be perfect for the boys to sing to take us from the ballad to the dance."

I nodded, but I was still worried about Rachel trying to take over again. I thought Kurt would stand up to her again, but you could never know. Past him, Santana was at Artie's locker, half bent over and smiling at him. Her eyes hit mine and she stopped smiling and started to get close with Artie. I forced myself to not feel sad.

***.***

Mercedes continued her vendetta, despite easily winning the diva-off. To her, beating Rachel wasn't beating her if she came back. It was a draw. So, when Mercedes marched towards me with a grin that looked almost like a supervillian's, all revenge and _bwhahaha_ evil, I prepared for the worst.

At least she looked fabulous; whenever she became mad, her appearance would deteriorate until, when she got to me, she looked like a hobo who lived in the Dumpsters out back who had never seen a comb.

"Yes?" I asked, tight-lipped.

"Rachel's throwing a party," she said contemptuously. "Something about her 'needing life experience'."

My eyes widened. I never liked parties and since my last one, I was weary of any gathering that included alcohol. "Really? Who's invited?"

"The whole Glee Club and she said you could bring Blaine," said Mercedes. "Would you wanna come?" She smiled in a way I didn't like at all.

"Oh, hold on." Britney Spears's _Slave 4 U_ started coming from my phone. Brittany. (She had insisted I change her ringtone, although I wasn't fond of this one) I dug my iPhone out from the depths of my pocket and answered. "Hello?"

"Did you hear?" she asked.

Mercedes slammed my locker. "Yes, Mercedes just told me."

"Loverboy, tell them I'll go if they go," she said in my ear.

I started down the hall and raised an eyebrow. _Loverboy?_ I mouthed.

"This sounds like it's not going to be fun," continued Brittany.

"It'll be awful," I replied.

Mercedes groaned and hit her Bluetooth. "Is Brittana going?"

Santana answered immediately. "Only if there's liquor. A Rachel Berry party is _not_ something I can do sober. And I'd give one of my twins to see Ladyface wasted again."

Mercedes gave me a look. "I wouldn't mind that either."

"But it's Alcohol Awareness Week," said Brittany, confused.

"Precisely," said Santana snarkily. "And Porcelain and I _aware_ of how much fun alcohol is. Puckerman can find us the liquor."

"It was one time," I said defensively. "Left," Mercedes said to me. We turned left, heading for her locker. "Please get drunk," she wheedled teasingly.

"With my luck, I'll end up sleeping with Blaine," I said dryly.

"Please don't," Brittany begged.

A loud beep and Puck joined the conversation. "You're a go for Puck."

Santana put on a seductive voice. "Noah, it's Santittany and Kurtcedes. Can your friends score us some wine coolers?"

"Nope. But his I.D. can," said Puck casually.

One more turn and we ended up at the school's main intersection. One by one, our phones clicked and the lines went dead.

"Well, if we're all in, it's settled," said Mercedes definitively. "The Rachel Berry House Party Train Wreck Extravaganza is officially a go."

"I'm not drinking," I warned.

Brittany slid her hand into mine. "Remember what happened last time?"

"Yeah," I laughed weakly. "That's why."

***.***

Kurt was going to drink. I didn't want to spike his drink, but he was definitely drinking. It's no fun to be sober when everyone is drinking and having fun.

I wore one of my funnest outfits. I even had my little black hat that Kurt said looked like it was eighty years old. I think that was a compliment. Santana had driven me over with Sam in the backseat. I think her and Artie were over and she had moved onto Sam, but she also could've been with both of them. Even _I_ knew that was cheating. Seeing Santana in her thin, tight blue and black dress made me think that maybe I should go back to her, but I stopped myself.

Rachel was wearing a terrible green dress when we came. She gave us two hot pink tickets and said we had to pay for our drinks. That sucked badly. Santana ended up sitting on Sam's lap, kissing his big fishy lips. I sat on a small couch that had a nice, soft fabric. Artie came a little later, and when he saw Santana and Sam, he got really, really sad and rolled into the corner.

I was starting to get bored and I wanted Kurt to come so I didn't feel so lonely. I wanted to sit on his lap and kiss him, just to show Santana that I didn't need her. Also, because it was fun, but having revenge on Santana was good too. But I really wished I knew why Kurt didn't want to do any more. I wanted to ask him but I knew the words wouldn't come out right. I wanted to feel his soft hands on me, or in me, and I wanted him to let me kiss his parts more, and not just push me back and kiss my lips.

Then, I heard Finn and Kurt and Blaine come downstairs and I smiled. They looked just as disgusted with the drink tickets as I was. I had ate mine. I was hungry and there was no good food, besides, paper didn't taste too bad. It probably tasted better than grapefruit wine coolers.

I got up to hug Kurt. He was wearing that one-suspender-plus-a-belt thing and his hair wasn't really sprayed or anything. He looked good, real good. So, I pulled him onto the little couch and kissed him. I didn't dare to sit on his lap first off, but I got to hold him, and he put his arms around me. There was no tongue and it was very first-date, but it was Kurt, and that was the important thing.

"Blaine!" called Rachel suddenly and Kurt and I broke apart. "There's no sitting on—on anything!" Blaine stopped leaning against the washing machine. She picked up a wine cooler. "Okay everybody—Cheers!"

"This is going to be a complete and utter nightmare," Kurt whispered in my ear. Kurt looked over me at Blaine, giving him puppydog eyes.

"Great party, Rachel," said Blaine sweetly. "But we've gotta run. Kurt and me and Brittany were only stopping by to say hi. We've got dinner plans." When Rachel looked all disappointed and sad, Blaine made a hand motion like _Come on!_. Kurt and I got halfway up the stairs before Rachel said something good.

"But—but—but we haven't even played Celebrity yet!" said Rachel desperately. She pulled on Puck's sleeve. "Why is everyone leaving?... Oh, let's party!"

Blaine stopped on the stairs and they were so small that Kurt and I had to stop, too. "Can we stay for a real party?" he asked, smiling.

Kurt's face was really hard, but I looked at him. "Please, please, _please_!"

Then _Like a G6_ started up, so much louder than the band music Rachel played earlier, and Kurt started to smile. Blaine and I cheered and got downstairs.

***.***

The transformation of Rachel's dry, stuffy Oscar basement into a 70's drunk-ass disco was phenomenal. Disco ball lit up; spilled beer and sticky patches covered the cement floor; glittering streamers and tinsel curtains shimmered on the walls; dubstep and techno blasting any eardrum in a ten-mile radius; dancing, flailing bodies over the mock dance floor; laughter and trip-ups and fall-downs everywhere.

Finn and me were the only sober people. He, because he was the designated driver and it would most likely be the one and only chance he would have to drive my Escalade. And me, because the last time alcohol passed my lips I lost my virginity. But Finn was miserable and that was making me miserable, and I wanted to have fun. I spun myself aimlessly on a bar stool, having mixed myself a Shirley Temple from Rachel's dads' surprisingly extensive bar.

Brittany, already past her first couple of shots, was dancing like a pro through the mosh of kids, grinding and making me half-wish I had downed a few hits of liquid courage. Blaine was also busting out moves, although his were in the corner, in his own little universe. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and he was in a hugging, screaming mood. Asian Squared were the flailers, throwing themselves together, Mike catching and spinning and snapping his limbs like a rag doll. Rachel hung herself on Finn, trailing like a lost dog. Mercedes was giggling like a toddler over a joke told ten minutes ago about chickens and road-crossings. Lauren and Quinn were yelling at Puck about nothing and Santana and Sam were truly grinding, sex with clothes on, in the middle of the dance floor—Sam, cross-eyed and delirious, Santana, cunning but stumbling drunk. Artie was apparently over his girlfriend, spinning out moves in his wheelchair and chatting up Mercedes.

Everyone having fun but me. I had already passed up several drink-related games, that had left them screeching and howling with laughter.

I looked at the vodka bottle. Oh, so tempting. Brittany suddenly hurtled herself at me, laughing, her shoulders and shirt damp with sweat. Her red plastic cup was empty and she stretched far to get the blackberry liquor bottle. She upended it for a few seconds and threw some soda in there for volume. She gave me a sloppy, fruit-flavoured kiss and played with my hair.

"Why you can't have fun and dance with me? I promise you'll dance with _no one_ else _aaaaalllllllllll_ night." She swayed her hips, taking my hand and playing with my fingers. She nudged her freshly made drink towards me.

"I can't dance," I protested.

"You dance perfect for competitions, and this is so much easier." She kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, "And I remember _Toxic_ and _Push It_, and that was really hot." Britts gave me a very serious look and pushed her drink even closer.

I moved my straw from my Shirley Temple to the blackberry concoction. One long slurp, and… I nearly fell backwards off my stool. Brittany doubled over, laughing.

"Don't drink it through a _straw!_ That's even worse."

I smiled weakly, still trying to get the room to stop spinning. I put my lips to the cup and took one long, slow sip. It was sweet and tangy, tasting exactly like blackberry soda. Except, after a few minutes, I could feel a lot of weight (most likely my reason) lifting out of my head and flying away.

Somehow it left me with the impression that I was a fabulous dancer. To be fair, I probably would've been worse if Brittany hadn't guided me. For the next God knows how long, Britts didn't let go of my hand, and the if and when she did, it was only to spin around and flail like Tike or to stand on her tip-toes to reach the blackberry liquor.

Then, what was essentially a game of Tiddlywinks started up and we crowded around the table like the others, drinking and laughing, snapping quarters into shot glasses. Mike won that game.

I had my first taste of tequila, and I had to admit the burn felt awesome and there was this _whoooo_ feeling in my head that felt like flying. But, then, of course, with tequila came body shots. Since it was Tina's idea first, she got to do one off Mike, kissing the salt off his neck. Then, Mike said it wouldn't be fair, because not everyone had their partner there. Therein came the empty vodka bottle (good God we drank a lot), it spun around and around, to pick the unfortunate victim.

Brittany was huddled next to me, her head laying on my shoulder. Santana's turn and it spun around to Brittany. The guys whooped for the girl-on-girl action, but I wasn't too happy. To be fair, Blaine was also in the ring and I was kinda hoping I could land on him. Hypocrite, I know, but a teenage boy who can't stand up straight has his hypocrisies.

Tina handed over the saltshaker and Sam behind her filled another shot, Santana put the lime wedge in Brittany's teeth. Brittany shimmied and took off her fluttery salmon vest and peeled off her t-shirt. She lay down in the middle, her head on my lap, and smiled a lime smile up at me.

A small S was drawn with the salt and Santana licked it up, shooting the drink and kissing Brittany to get the lime. They fell away from each other, laughing like hyenas. Brittany sat up, still in only her black and pink polka dotted bra, black hot pants and knee-high boots. She dusted the little bit of salt from her stomach and kissed me hard, our teeth bonking together. She took the vest from me and put it on, spreading it between her arms like wings. Britts went flying, dancing and flying, calling herself the first flying unicorn. The body shot party broke up soon after, dissolving to the dance floor.

Brittany pulled me by my tie to the dance floor, blessing me with her vest. Honestly, she told me that I was the next flying unicorn, who would take to the sky with sparkly awesomeness. And then it was shuffle time. As the drinks piled on, people tripped and landed on the floor more and more, igniting rounds of laughter and screams. They just needed another drink.

Finn was scuffing his feet awkwardly, swirling his cup of Coca-Cola. I danced my way over to him, leaving Mercedes to laugh with Brittany about the last time I got drunk. To be fair, I was handling it much better now. My legs got twisted around a chair that wasn't there before and I fell at Finn's feet.

Looking quite sad, Finn gave me a hand up and nodded stiffly when I thanked him. "You know, I really used to love you," I said loudly over the music.

He nodded again. "I know." But now there was a small smile.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, 'cause I guess I thought everyone was kinda attracted to both genders a little bit. I thought I could bring out the gay in you." I spread my arms wide like Brittany had, using her vest as wings. "Now, you're my best brother ever, and we can all call taxies or walk home. It's no biggie, so you can drink." I gave him a hug, and I reached only up to his shoulders.

Finn nodded again. "No. Why don't you go dance with Blaine? See, he's all alone, jamming to himself." He pointed to where Blaine always seemed to gravitate; the far back corner. "Go get him, tiger," said Finn calmly, pushing me over to the wobbly Warbler.

Hehe. "Wobbly Warbler".

So Blaine and me danced. There was loads of screaming and laughing and hugging involved. It was fun. I didn't feel much for him. He was pretty good looking, but he wasn't this epic fairytale prince who came to save me from the depths of homophobia and intolerance. Not anymore. He was just my hot gay friend, who could dance like no one's business. Even when our hips bumped, it was friendly, and flirty, and fun, instead of agonising and terrifying—I knew any "issues" could be resolved with my own lovely, unicorn/bicorn girlfriend.

All of a sudden, spinning like toddlers on a playdate, we tripped over each other and somehow, someway, God thought it would be clever to make Blaine "Wobbly Warbler" Anderson fall on top of Kurt "Bi With a Girlfriend" Hummel. And _right_ on top of, like all the parts matching up, too damn close for anything but kissing.

And Blaine was hot.

That's my one, pathetic excuse for my next action.

I leaned up and stuck my lips on his. He had been drinking loads of beer and tasted sour. That was the one and only reason I stopped: beer tasted sour and even though his lips were soft and he felt mind-numbingly incredible, the taste was intolerable.

I pushed him up off of me and I managed to stand up, only to see Brittany. My heart fell. She didn't look happy, but I hugged her and swayed with her to the beat, and said, "I'm so sorry. That was terrible. Blaine's an awful kisser and I'd rather have you." It cheered her up, but I didn't have another drink for the rest of the night. I couldn't. This had been my worst fear and Brittany was so scared of being really alone that she would never break up with me.

A few more jamming beats later and Brittany found herself on a table, shaking it up like the original Britney, and spinning her t-shirt. I was very well aware that she was stripping for me, but when she hopped off the table into my arms and wrapped her legs around my waist, I didn't care _what_ she did, so long as it was with me and it was fun.

I was still plenty drunk to enjoy Spin-The-Bottle… especially when Blaine kissed Rachel and stuck his tongue down her throat. I wasn't too fond of the Samtittany kiss, but when she leaned back into me and kissed me after, I felt better. But when Raine fell… it was a stunner, especially when Rachel grabbed Blaine by his half undone sweater and pulled him up on stage to sing the tacky _Don't You Want Me_ (jumpjumpjumpjump) _Baby!_.

Brittany and I stayed on the long white couch with Mercedes and Tina, the giggling toddlers, our energy going fast. Mike was telling joke after joke, making all of us laugh until we hurt. Mercedes was tossing popcorn into the air, catching it aimlessly, and I had found a pair of sunglasses in my bag that I flipped on.

I had almost fallen asleep when Brittany said to me, "You wanna go upstairs?"

I have poor impulse control.

That's my excuse.

"Sure, boo. Why not?"

And Brittany and I were on Rachel's couch, upstairs in her family room. It was a deep plush red velvet, wrapping around a corner of the room and wide. Brittany already shed her shirt, tie and was squirming in her attempt to get out of her beyond-skin-tight shorts. All I did was stare, I'm sorry to say. At last, Brittany got the shorts past her knees, unzipped her boots, and was standing in front of me wearing nothing but black and pink polka dotted bra and panties.

She let herself fall backwards onto the couch, stretching out and smiling. "You don't need to worry so much," she whispered.

I wasn't sure what to do, but when I sat beside her, she sat up and started undressing me. Tie, suspenders (she was very confused by those), shirt, and she was pulling quite hard to get my skinny jeans off. Britts ended up on her knees, between my legs—God, she was beautiful. Whatever I did to deserve her, I wanted to do it again.

She licked her lips, opened her mouth like she was going to say something, and shook her head. She sat on my lap and directed my hand to the snap on her bra. For the first time in a long time, I actually _felt_ her against me and I was wondering why I had taken so long.

Brittany finally kissed me and I felt my head spin with the scent of strawberries and the taste of blackberries. Her skin was hot and damp from the dancing, but making out with her (mostly) naked felt just like dancing, moving in synch, and I was so pissed at myself for always worrying what she was thinking, like that she was better than me.

I kissed her skin and tasted salt and Brittany. All I knew was that I wanted _more_, and that I wanted to feel her, to touch her, to actually make her feel something. I kissed my way down her body and found out that my favourite sound in the whole world was the girl I loved saying my name.

When I got to her panties, Brittany whispered softly what to do, how to do it, and I started to experiment. The hand that tangled itself in my hair got fiercer and dug in deeper, pulling in to her. In that moment I understood more than I had in a long time: I understood the meaning of "writhed", the song _Only Girl in the World_, the beauty of my own name coming from the right lips, and really just how gorgeous Brittany S. Pierce was. And that girls didn't taste all that bad.

I was barely finished when Brittany gave me this big, lazy, Cheshire Cat smile and pushed me by my shoulders until I was lying flat on my back. A gentle order to relax and she repaid the favour. I also learned why Britts put her hand on my head; all I wanted to do was touch her, make her feel loved, even though every muscle in her smile and every hum that passed her lips told me she already knew it. She made me soar higher than any of the drinks had before, and when my release came and the energy zapped itself from my body, Brittany came back to my level and gave me that same relaxed, loving and lovable smile.

I leaned up to kiss her, and all the right parts matched up. I was about to make some absent sound of approval, but I knew it wasn't needed. Britts knew it all already. She tipped herself onto the side, holding my hand and twining our fingers. Brittany curled into my chest and kissed my collarbone, not saying anything, put gently putting her lips out and moving her head. The only sound was our heartbeats and our breathing.

"Perfect" was another word I truly learned the meaning of.

***.***

I was miserable. Real miserable. Being the designated driver is never fun, especially when all your friends get shit-faced and your ex-girlfriend hooks up with the gay guy and ends up sucking face, and your other ex-girlfriend goes into a drunken rage.

It was way past midnight, and the energy had left the party. Only Puck went to get drinks, and he enjoyed them at the bar, simply for the hell of drinking. People were nodding off and Rachel and Blaine were kind of in a sleepy, lovey daze on the couch. I found Kurt's man purse and his keys. The only positive of the night.

I got Tina, Mike, Sam and Mercedes first. They were sleeping like the dead, all on one couch together in a mass of sweaters-used-as-blankets and tangled arms and legs. They each directed me to their house and I was back pretty quickly. Artie—thank God—had been picked up by his dad a few hours ago, being handicapped and all. Quinn, Santana, Lauren and Puck were next. At least I knew where they all lived. The girls snoozed in the backseat, leaning their heads on each other's shoulders. Lauren was kinda like a pillow. Puck was nodding off, too, but he was still awake enough to make small talk.

When I got back, Blaine had lost his shirt. I found his thin, little red sweater and threw it to him. "Come on. Going home," I said. Rachel gave me this look, but I ignored it and took Blaine out to the car.

That was it for the Oscar basement. I had been scared to look for Kurt and Brittany, mostly because I didn't want to walk in on anything, but they had run out of time now. I didn't have to look far. One look at the two of them, lying on the couch together, and I didn't need specifics. Blaine had this brilliant plan to bunk on the couch, so I didn't have to drive across town. What the hell was I supposed to do with _these_ two? Obviously, Kurt was coming home, but Brittany?

I found Kurt's big, woollen, fashion coat and threw it over them like a blanket. They were actually sleeping. Oh God. "Come on, get up. Designated driver here." I didn't know where to shake them, but my voice was enough.

Kurt gave me one look, then pulled the coat up to his neck. The problem was, it wasn't long enough to cover the… _important_ part.

I left the room, finding my own puffed vest. "You get dressed, and you'll need to give me directions to Brittany's."

"Why?" shouted Kurt. I could hear the wince from here. Almost hangover time. "Britts can sleepover. You don't need to drive anyone else. I'm decent, and so's Britt."

I poked my head around the corner, but they were all dressed. Brittany had her back to me and her pants on, at least. But Kurt was fully dressed, even coat and scarf. He stumbled a little when he walked closer.

"We've got a couch and a chaise. Blaine's already claimed the couch upstairs, so Brittany can hang in my sitting room until we've slept this off or until noon, when you wake up, so you can drive her. Brittany's petite, she can lay on the chaise easily." He smiled. "There's nothing to it."

I didn't want to say anything about them figuring out how she could lie on the little couch he had in his room, but I wanted to say something about how, if Brittany was downstairs with him, they'd get no sleeping done. I didn't, but I wanted to.

There was no point arguing with drunk people. I learned that at football parties. "Fine," I said. _But you're paying the price with Burt._

Brittany spun around and striked a pose with her hat. Kurt laughed and kissed her. I really didn't want to know what was going on. Brothers, sure, and even though both our sex lives had girls in them, I still didn't want to know anything.

***.***

I woke up with the most monstrous headache a man could have. My head thumped and my stomach churned, every muscle I had and even I few I wasn't aware of began to twist and complain at me.

It might've been in vain, but I had researched hangovers prior to drinking. I knew what I needed in me (water, carbs, protein, vitamins and minerals and grease), but the mere thought of walking upstairs to cook myself—make that me, Brittany and Blaine—an English breakfast made me feel sick.

Rolling over and seeing half a dozen water bottles on my nightstand made me thank Finn profusely in my head. I downed two within minutes and gradually gained the strength to stand. Seeing Brittany sleeping like an angel made me not want to wake her and expose her to this atrocity of a state of life. I kissed her and found my pyjamas in the closet. I was _not_ cooking bacon naked, I didn't care how hungover I was. In the closet, I spotted a pair of earmuffs, which I never wore since they cancelled out all sound. Right now, they were a lifesaver. I found a pair of dark sunglasses and flicked them on as well. Lights would not come on for a long, long time.

The stairs were a challenge, but I soon found the ingredients. I left out the beans (mostly because we were having chilli con carne tonight and that was simply too many beans), but soon had every appliance in the kitchen churning, spitting, crackling, dripping or beeping at me. So glad for the earmuffs.

Twenty minutes later, my body ready for sleep again, I had four almost-full English breakfasts and no customers. I could hardly bare to wake up Blaine, sleeping so peacefully and snoring like a demon, but food and water and sports drinks would help him. I rubbed Blaine's arm until he woke up, blinking at the ceiling in disbelief. Finn blowing up soldiers on _Call of Duty _in his room. I had never seen Blaine run so fast as when he needed to throw up his stomach's stock of alcohol.

I went back to the kitchen, stabilising myself with the wall, to see Blaine piling ketchup on his ham and Dad giving me and angry, stunned look. Brittany, in all her blonde, morning happiness, was wearing _my_ long red button down shirt and her hot pink panties. That was _all_ she was wearing.

"I found her in your bed," said Dad matter-of-factly.

Well, how could I deny that?

"She was sleeping over," I muttered, breaking a Gatorade from a six-pack in the cupboard and drinking it quickly. "So was Blaine."

Dad smiled, tight lipped. "Blaine was upstairs on the couch with jeans and a sweater. Brittany was naked, in your bed."

"Cardigan," said Blaine suddenly. "It's a maroon cardigan from the Gap."

It made Dad loose his train of thought. "What?"

Brittany bit her lip and looked like she might cry. "We didn't have sex!" she said loudly.

Finn just came into the kitchen behind me, dressed in jeans and some football jersey. He had that surprised, _huh?_ face down to an art form.

"I just—" Brittany continued.

"That's over-sharing," Blaine said quickly, putting a hand on Brittany's arm.

Distressed, she turned to me, then to Dad. "Mr. Burt, all we did was—"

I shook my head. "Please, no," I begged. "Dad doesn't need to hear."

"What did you kids _do_ that you don't want me to know about?" Dad nearly shouted in frustration, and I realised we had made it sound like a lot more than it was. "What did she need to sleep over for?"

"Third base," said Finn. He looked down at me awkwardly. "Right? Just—um—mouth?"

I thought I would die right then. Was it possible to die form embarrassment? I suppose so, fluctuating heartbeat playing havoc with internal structures and the demand of oxygen—

"Well, fingers, too," said Brittany, drinking long from her glass of orange juice. "Tongue, too. Lots of parts, actually."

Heart attack. Was this what it felt like?

"We didn't do anything here, if that's what you're worried about," I said, wishing that this conversation was happening in private.

Blaine started shovelling scrambled eggs onto his fork.

"Well, where the hell do you do it?" Everyone in the room cringed when Dad raised his voice.

"Rachel had a party last night, so we found a quiet place," said Brittany, hanging her head. "It was the first time Kurt let me do anything more than kissing, I didn't think it would cause so many problems."

I wanted to move around Dad to hug her, kiss her, but that probably wouldn't have been a very good idea.

My eyes frantically searched the room for something—_anything—_that could change the topic. I spotted my stack of cookbooks on the top of the cupboards. "Dad!" I shrieked. "I was going to teach you about how to make brunch. I'm so sorry! I—"

I tried to rush past him to get the cookbook, but Dad put a hand on my chest. "Whoa! Hold on there, son. We're still on the double sleepover."

"Blaine lives on the other side of town, so we let him crash here after a party. What's the big deal?" said Finn loudly. "Is that hashbrowns?" He pointed to the hashbrowns. Ohhhh, I _loved_ Finn.

"Yep. Enough grease to drown out England," I said, my voice unnaturally high.

"Just the thing for a hangover," added Blaine through a mouthful of ketchup-slathered sausage.

Dad paused, then looked at all of us. I had dimmed the kitchen lights way down and still had the noise-cancelling earmuffs around my neck. Two and two makes four. He flipped on the switch and Brittany, Blaine and me all raised our arms to defend ourselves, yelping at the light.

"You're _all_ hungover?"

Finn, thank God for Finn. I was falling in love with him all over again. "I was designated driver, and I got everyone home safely. I drove the Escalade all around town, and everyone's parents had driven them there for the party, so there were no cars left behind—no reason for anyone to drive. The most that happened were a few sloppy kisses from Spin-The-Bottle and some bad dancing."

The scarring in my retinas hurt less and I started to squint. "We were all being responsible," I said defensively. "Blaine lives on the other end of town, a two hour round-trip drive, and I didn't think there was anything wrong with letting Brittany crash in my bed." I could feel my ears burn.

"Your girlfriend, naked, in your bed—nothing inappropriate with that? All I want is an apology." Dad held his hands up. "You're being responsible and that's good, but in my house, I don't care whether it's with a guy or a girl, you don't need to be doing anything… sexual in my house."

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "I was being inappropriate." Hell, I knew it when I suggested it to Finn. "And I won't do it again." Nevermind the extra rounds Britts and I did before we went to sleep.

Dad smiled. "Thank you. Now, why don't I have any breakfast?"

I pointed to the microwave, where bacon, eggs, sausage and toast was slowly revolving. When he turned to get them, I kissed Brittany, promised her it wasn't her fault and that I had a great night, and turned the lights back down.

I had never been so happy as when Dad left the room.

***.***

My tummy hurt badly. It tossed and turned like Lord Tubbington when it was time for his bath. My head felt like Charity was inside and purring and scratching my brain. And my eyes burned like when you stare at the sun to see if he's really wearing round black sunglasses.

It was Monday, but it was worth it. Even just to see Kurt come to school wearing a strawberry red wool hat with long strings down to his collar, and big Hollywood sunglasses. I had stuffed cotton balls in my ears and I was wearing my lion hat. Everyone else was protecting their ears and eyes. We all looked like movie stars and felt like crap. I could barely get any energy to be happy about Kurt and me.

Sam tightened his hood until only his nose and sunglasses poked out. "Have fun?"

I nodded, then cried inside. Moving my head wasn't good. It was painful.

Artie rolled up to us with a big silver spaceship that usually held hot chocolate and lots of paper cups. "How about some Bloody Marys, y'all?" He grinned.

Mercedes wasn't happy. "Are you kidding me? The last thing I want to do is drink."

"It'll help your hangover," promised Artie, pouring out cups. "That's what Bloody Marys are for. Hair of the dog that done bit your ass."

I looked at Kurt. "The nutrients in the tomato juice—oh, just give me one." He made a face and shot it back like whiskey.

One by one, we all shot back the burning tomatoey drinks. Artie started singing _Blame It On the Alcohol_ and we wheeled/walked to the auditorium, changing into every piece of black and leather that the costume trunk had. Artie mixed up the lights and we drank a lot more Bloody Marys before Puck (because he was the most used to dancing and running with drinks) got Mr. Schuester to see us.

There were awesome red lights and purple couches and Artie was so badass I thought he was a tall black guy for a minute. We all took off our sunglasses and weaved and got slidey with the music, dancing like at the party and I got all light and floaty. I got a sparkly black jacket and Kurt just took off his coat, and he was wearing a tight, shimmery black shirt. His pretty eyes got shady and cloudy and he got into dancing again.

Then Mercedes had her last note and it was over.

Kurt's hand was a lot lower on my back than it usually was, and I kissed him. Everyone was kinda shaky and stumbling and tripping up when we were standing for Mr. Schue to say we did good.

"I mean, you always bring it with the singing and the dancing, but what I was really impressed with today was your acting." Mr. Schue clapped and laughed too loudly. Way too loudly. "I really believed that some of you guys were _drunk_!"

Artie slumped forward in his robot chair. "We take our shit seriously," he said smoothly, still black.

Mr. Schue made a face and kept talking about how it wasn't appropriate, and that just made me think of Mr. Burt and sleeping over at Kurt's. I turned in Kurt's arms and told him I was sorry, but I guess I turned too much and he almost fell into Mike Chang.

Rachel, so happy to get back in the Glee Club, was falling all over, flirting with Mr. Schuester and Mike Chang, feeling his abs and complimenting his vest (Schue's vest and Mike's abs).

I didn't think there was nothing wrong with drinking. It was fun and it made me and Kurt and it made us happy. It made you feel floaty and laughy and happy. What was wrong with that? Especially if Finn stayed boring and dull and drove us home. Nothing wrong, no danger, and you go to sleep before you die from drinking.

And then Santana was crying. Her uncle slept when he was drinking and he didn't wake up. I hugged her and she cried a little on my shoulder.

It got to be Quinn & Puck vs. Mr. Schuester because he was would drink when he came home and it wasn't right. It was double standards, like me and Santana and Kurt and Blaine, and all the adults were drinking. Totally unfair.

Our song wasn't good enough. It needed to be more educational and school-worthy and less fun.

I thought we should do Ke$ha.

***.***

"I didn't drink _that_ much," protested Blaine.

I laughed and picked up our coffees. "Are you kidding? You spent the entire night sucking Rachel Berry's face. That, sir, is what we call rock bottom."

Blaine smirked and took a sip before adding sugar by the gallon. "Says the guy who was using his… mouth."

I blushed. "Shuddup."

Blaine dipped his hand into his pocket, producing a buzzing phone. "Speak of the devil." His smile was rather forced.

I took a long drink, thinking, as I added flavourings to mine.

"Hi, Rachel," said Blaine in a very familiar, friendly, almost flirty voice. It was how he used to talk to me. "Kurt and I were just talking about you… Oh, really?" His smile shrunk but became more genuine. Something that might've been a giggle escaped him; I covered a snort of laughter with a poor cough.

"Oh, my God! Is she drunk?" I asked, only to be shushed by Blaine. Rachel's sloppy, slurring voice came from the phone.

"All right, I'll see you then," finished Blaine. Click.

We got to our usual table, Blaine considerably happier. "Rachel just asked me out," he said in disbelief.

"Adorable," I said condescendingly. "She's got a girl crush on you. Hold on, you said yes?"

Blaine looked down. "Well, I wanted to talk to you about that, actually."

I tried not to presume anything, but I felt a small panic attack start. "Sure." I covered my worry with coffee.

"When I kissed her, it felt good. Really good." Blaine looked at me, trying to catch my eye. "I know I was drunk, but, you know, I've never had a boyfriend and I want to go on a date, but it might be something more. I might be—you know—bisexual. I don't think straight, but I've never had more than, like, preteen kinda crushes."

He was starting to ramble so I stepped in. My fingers played with the seam on my coat sleeve. "Just go on a date and find out if you like a girl." I took a drink. Way too much vanilla.

Blaine swallowed, tapping his fingertips on the table. "How did it feel for you? I know you told me a lot, but—I need to hear it again."

_Oy vey_.

I never had so much trouble searching for words. "I was… interested—very interested in who she was, the type of person and the intimacy that was between us. Like the rest of the world disappeared, almost like that really good friend who time just _flies_ with. And… I remember the kind of electric feeling when she looked at me, or kissed me, or held my hand… I didn't really want to admit I was falling, or already had fallen, for her so I told myself that it was a phase, that it would go away. But it hasn't and I've never felt better." I smiled wanly.

Blaine wasn't in the mood for humour. "The butterflies and electricity—that's real, like in the movies and books?"

I nodded. "That's about the only thing it got right. Real life's a lot messier."

Blaine hmmm'd, chewing his Chapstik'd lips. "Okay. I'll keep that in mind for the date."

I grinned. "Fabulous. We must discuss where you're taking her." I crossed my legs and drank eagerly. Blaine laughed and rolled his eyes at me, but instantly started giving me ideas from the Winter Festival to the old time cinema downtown.

He _needed_ my help.

The final decision was to take her to see _Love Story_ at the Revival Theater, then walk around the old, bright lights, small city part of Lima. Classy, yet fun. I decided not to warn Blaine that Rachel was cutthroat ambitious, attempting to stage a comeback and hopelessly desperate for a man in her life.

Although Blaine did turn down a double date with me and Brittany. Couldn't imagine why.

***.***

Even with all the sparkly glitter throwing rainbows everywhere, my tummy still felt bad, and not day-after-partying bad, just nervous bad. I thought I would throw up. There were just so many people out there and they weren't glittery and dancey—how was I supposed to change that?

"Guys, I'm really nervous," I said, looking at everyone stretching and practising their singing. "Ke$ha's been a culture icon for weeks and I really want to do her music justice."

I looked at Kurt. He was dressed like the other boys, with jeans that were way too big and a hat that made your head look like a squishy alien head. "We haven't had enough rehearsal," he said, rolling his shoulders around and making his head flop.

"Or any at all," said Sam flatly.

Mercedes flipped out her hair. "And most of our assembly performances usually end up in some kind of riot."

Rachel came out of nowhere, her straight hair all wavy and frizzy like all of ours, and her t-shirt hanging off her little body. "Fear not, teammates." She had a big jug with her, like a milk jug. "Now it's a Broadway tradition for nervous performers to take a shot of whiskey before going on to calm their nerves and to mask the stench of bad dental hygiene." I liked milk. She passed all of us red plastic cups and poured a lot of purple liquid. I tasted it, because it kinda looked like blackberry soda, but it didn't. Not at all. "In that tradition, I have mixed us a playful showbiz cocktail of what was left in my dads' liquor cabinet. There's some brandy and vermouth and port wine and scotch in here, and also a little bit of Kool-Aid and some crumbled-up Oreos."

We all had some long drinks from it. Finn spat it back into the cup and I did the same. Kurt made a face, but shot it back, and everyone else sipped at it.

Santana didn't like it. "Oh, my God. This tastes like cough syrup."

"There's also cough syrup," said Rachel, all sunny and happy.

We clinked our cups, but since they weren't glass they didn't _clink_ they just _bonked_. We bonked our cups and said cheers.

I already felt my head start to float up, up and away. I stood next to Santana and Artie, trying to remember all the choreography.

"You ready, girlfriend?" Santana made that mean little smile that I thought—and still kinda did think—was so sexy.

_Think about Kurt. You have Kurt, Brittany_.

"No," I said loudly. "Not at all."

Artie gave me a look, but he didn't ask. The microphone squealed, the curtains came up and I heard the beats. My body just kicked into it and I waved and rolled and moved. Dancing was so much fun, especially when I could pretend to be famous and think about what my own song would be, and what kind of girls in what kind of Glee Clubs would be doing it for their school.

The audience wasn't liking it, but I could ignore them until they got happy. This was all me. I had never—actually I had. I hadn't felt this excited in a long time—no, that wasn't right either. I had never ever felt this excited by myself. That worked. I was so excited and electricity ran through me and I could feel all those eyeball staring at me—it was so incredible.

And then my tummy didn't feel good. All my nerves were gone, but it still didn't like me doing this. It had to have been the partying and Rachel's stupid drink.

I broke out of dance and said to her that I didn't feel good. I didn't know who else to ask permission from. I needed to go soon before—

And then my throat burned like fire and all this purple goop flew from my mouth—

_Right onto Rachel Berry._

But everyone saw and my awesome flag t-shirt was wet with purple stuff. There was no more dancing music and my microphone was squeaking at me again. Then Santana threw up onto herself and everyone was looking at me.

"Everybody drink responsibly," I said wildly. It was the only thing I could think of.

We all ran off stage and Kurt took me to one bathroom, Finn took Rachel to another bathroom and Sam took Santana to the bathroom on the other side of the school. We all got clean and picked the glitter off ourselves.

"I was good until the purple monster thing, right?" I asked, as Kurt bent his head over the sink and combed out the tiny silver spots.

"You were fabulous," he said, shaking his hair out, styling it with his fingers.

And I felt something around me. I looked and he had my school sweater and t-shirt on my shoulders, the stuff I had come to school in. I changed as fast as I could and washed all the sour, burning sick off me before rinsing out my mouth.

My mouth didn't like me these days. First, it wouldn't sing right for Kurt and now it throw Rachel's alcohols back at her.

***.***

"…and then Mr. Schuester gave us his number in case we ever got wasted again."

Blaine, who had been grinning throughout the entire story, gave me The Eyebrow Look and smirked at me. "Are you getting a taste for alcohol, Kurt?"

I blushed deeply and avoided his eye. My resolve cracked quickly. "Mmmmmmmaybe."

We clinked coffee cups and drank to that. It was Saturday afternoon and we always caught up on Saturday afternoons at the Lima Bean; it was the halfway point between McKinley and Dalton. Brittany was set to meet us here at some time to go shopping. It was time to start looking at the possibility that I could very well be going to prom with a date. Fashion needed to be addressed and the sooner the better.

"Oh, how'd your date go with Rachel?" I asked, trying to seem casual. I had resisted the urge to bang on her door to inconspicuously wrangle an answer from her skinny neck.

Blaine perked up. "Well, I think it went great. We ended up dressing as the characters and we joked and teased each other about knowing the musical by heart. It was fun."

"Did you kiss her?" I asked, tipping cheap vanilla flavouring into my coffee.

Blaine made a noise that was half a groan, half a squeak. "No, not yet. I'm—I'm waiting for the right time. It was like being with a fantastic friend." He must've interpreted something in my face because he added, "But I felt sparks!"

"Good," I said. "I'm happy for you." Not really. Kind of, it was Blaine and Blaine deserved someone he cared about, and Rachel deserved a break but she was… so _Rachel_ that I found this match-up hard to swallow.

"You know, you and her are a lot alike," he said offhand, sitting down. I gave him a look and he was instantly embarrassed. "Not that that's why I like her. She's a good friend, but that's not why I'm interested—"

"It's okay," I sighed, car-watching for the blue pick-up that would bring Brittany. Her dad didn't like her driving. Couldn't imagine why.

"Hey, look who's here!" said Blaine, standing up and going to the bell-chiming door. Rachel, decked out in a massive button-down coat and winding scarf, smiled and made a beeline for Blaine. They hugged it out and talked for a few minutes before Rachel ordered herself a drink and I realised I had lost a drinking partner when Blaine returned and Rachel dragged a chair so close to him they could've welded a park bench together.

Thankfully, Brittany came and broke the most awkward third-wheel feeling. Now, it was a slightly ridiculous double date. Rachel didn't talk much to me and Brittany and when she did, her and Blaine would end up in a very small discussion about their date or the one they were planning for tomorrow.

Brittany said it best, "This feels like when Mrs. Jenkin's cat, Lord Tubbington and Charity have tea parties with Mr. Theodore's female dog."

No doubt in her mind that Rachel was the female dog.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong><strong>My exams are starting on Monday, so I'm kinda taking an extended break to write until about... Sunday at 11 o'clock... so you might see another chapter out of me.<strong>**

**Compliments and complaints are always appreciated.  
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**I know it sounds like I know what Kurt and Brittany are singing as a love ballad, but I have no clue at all. I know the others and they're set.  
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**And, yes, Kurt's description of his first hangover is from my hard earned life experience.  
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**Anything in particular? It doesn't have to be a duet, just a song that has love.  
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	14. Do You Wanna Touch?

**Disclaimer**: Hopefully they won't do the same thing again with the next crop, but they didn't set themselves up for anything good. Poor Glee. Never ever mine.

**This is my adaption of the episodes s02e15: Sexy.  
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**This, once more, is one of my favourite/most hated episodes Glee has ever produced. There's a lot of Brittana and a lot of Kurt coming to understanding sex, so I love it (I've always shipped Britana and Kurt didn't know how sexy he was - _Toxic, 4 Minutes, Push It_...).**

**Oh, and if anyone despises Raine, I can kill it off next chapter. I have no real devotion to them. It just seemed unique.  
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><p><strong>*.*<strong>

"Oh, stop worrying," I said easily. Blindly, my hand found the cloth and I patted my face dry. My vanity was spotted with water.

Blaine's voice echoed with a techy tone from the speaker. "I just sometimes feel like Rachel is taking advantage of me, like she's using me to get back at Finn."

I took Blaine off speaker-phone and held my iPhone to my face. I decided not to mention that it was well within the realms of possibility. "You and Rachel have much more in common than she and Finn ever did. I honestly think Finn was just the school crush for her, you know, big, hunky football star—"

"You're not making me feel any better," said Blaine dryly.

"You know what I mean. She had to twist his arm to watch _Grease_ with her, and that's the most famous musical of all time. The main attraction was physical and that Finn was so puppy-dog infatuated with her." I tried to button my pyjama shirt one handed but the buttons were too smooth.

There was a length of silence on his end. I put the phone down for a second to button my shirt properly. A small hiss came from the speaker.

"Sorry, Blaine, I missed that," I said quickly.

"Couples don't need to have a lot in common," he repeated. "Take a look at you and Britts."

I had no answer to that. "You said you wanted to make you feel better. You both want to be on Broadway, you both are willing to kill your best friend to get to the top and you're both very talented. Plus, Rachel hasn't been mean or condescending for the past two weeks. She's actually _happy_, so whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"Fine," he sighed. "I'll be dropping by tomorrow after Glee to pick up Rach, so if I come early, don't lynch me."

I smiled. "That's fine. Brittany can protect you with unicorn sparkly awesomeness."

"I take back saying you and Brittany aren't alike." Blaine laughed and hung up after we exchanged goodbyes.

Good God, I hoped that was a compliment.

Morning came and went. Mercedes and I had our usual Health class which, sadly, was always boring and rarely said something that we didn't already know. However, when Miss Holiday walked in, my mood immediately lifted.

We were greeted with an enthusiastic, "_Buenos dias, classe!_" before she went to work. The information-based and kindergarten-style posters were torn down and a PowerPoint went up. She dropped a massive black bag on the desk and started talking about how sexual urges were normal for teenagers and that she wasn't here to tell us to never, ever do it.

It made me severely uncomfortable. Especially when she started talking about condoms. I subtly inched my chair away from Mercedes, who was studiously taking notes and doodling, trying to block it out.

But not when the cucumber came out. "Seriously, 'cause I just had them on my salad," she said.

I swore, I felt my gag reflex rebel.

The talk was sprinkled with jokes and light-hearted comments about celebrities and various aspects of pop culture. She was clearly an adult who didn't let her age dictate what she did. However, this didn't make the class any less awkward or any more entertaining. Much of the class got on her side.

I had never been more thankful that Britt wasn't in this class.

***.***

I hadn't talked to Kurt all weekend. I didn't like keeping secrets, they always really hurt when I looked at the people I was being secret about, but this was an important secret and I needed to tell someone. I was really sad and wanted to tell someone, anyone.

So when Santana patted my back and talked all sweetly and nicely, I wanted to just let her hug me.

"Hey, Britt-Britt. You know what, I don't like being mad and you don't either. I'm willing to forgive you for Hummel. We could do a little forgiving tonight. How about you and I pop in some _Sweet Valley High_ this evening, get our cuddle on?"

I didn't want to look at her when I told her. I knew I didn't want to have a girlfriend and a boyfriend—that was just so much work and it wasn't right, even though it was so much fun—but I didn't think Santana needed me to tell her.

"I really like you—"

"Nuh-uh," said Santana, her hand getting tight on my shoulder. "Let's save this for tonight."

"—I wanna forgive you, I do, because you just do what you think is right. But I don't want us anymore, I just want to be friends, not anything else—"

I had expected Santana to get all mean and angry, but she didn't. "That's okay. You can have some time off. I'll come over next week."

I twisted my shirt into little winkled rolls. "I'm sorry, I just want to be friends. No extra stuff. I want you to stop thinking that everything I do is just, like, in the moment. I know what I want, and I want Kurt."

I looked at her, then, and I knew what the other boys meant when I broke their hearts. Something in Santana went out and there wasn't any more light in her. She dropped her hand and put them on her hips.

"Oh. Friendzone it is." That was a little meaner.

At least it made me feel better. She wasn't happy about it, but she knew that it was happening. Good.

"Then, can I tell you something as a friend?" I asked hopefully. Santana shrugged. "I think I have a bun in the oven," I said quickly. "Please don't tell anyone, especially Kurt."

Santana's eyes got very big and she patted my back again. "Yeah, of course."

I closed my locker and went to the choir room for Glee, with much less weight on me. Santana was fixed, the secret wasn't just mine anymore, and I didn't have to feel guilty.

***.***

I was in the choir room, warming up my voice absently, thinking about Britts when Lauren and Puck came in. Brittany's voice had really gotten much better; she was ready, I think, to sing a big duet now.

"What's that?"

Conversation from the others floated around me. I caught a few words here and there, and answered on auto-pilot when needed. Britts and I had a weekend of rehearsals to make up, and we needed to work hard.

My voice cracked in the middle of a fairly easy run. "Pardon me?"

"Brittany's pregnant," repeated Puck, sinking into a plastic chair.

And I felt drunk, my senses floating away, my heart pounding in my ears, my mind revving to the future. Quinn's disaster of last year… Finn's heart-wrenching guilt… telling the parents—_oh my God!_—Dad didn't like oral… this wasn't going to go well—wait. I counted. Yep. It was possible…. Maybe…

I felt someone—probably Rachel, seeing as she was jabbering to me—push me into a chair. My joints gave way and I crawled up into it, my head and eyes swimming.

"Kurt? What happened?"

I hadn't even noticed Mr. Schuester had come in.

"You are witnessing the complete destruction of a future star's career and life," I said though numb lips. "My life is over."

It had to have been _months_ ago. How couldn't I notice, how couldn't _she_ notice? Well, it was Brittany… And she had never slept over: morning sickness, casual weight fluctuations

Brittany waltzed in, a few minutes early, her arms filled with squiggly notebooks, a feathery, glittery pen clamped in her teeth, her lips parted to ensure her Lip Smackers remained unsmudged.

"How couldn't you tell me?" I said flatly. "It was… almost five months ago."

_One in ten mothers weren't aware of the pregnancy until a home test told them otherwise, sometimes until the seventh month_…

Ironic that that was the only thing I had taken from Miss Holiday's Health class.

Brittany dropped the pen in surprise, sitting beside me like a scolded dog. "I'm so sorry, Kurt," she whispered. "I didn't want to upset you."

"Wait, Brittany, are you pregnant?" Mr. Schuester.

Brittany wrapped her arms around my neck, upsetting my tie. "Definitely. I thought I could surprise you when I dropped him off. I'm pretty sure it's a boy."

The entire room was hushed.

"Um…babies don't get dropped off," said Puck. Even he was confused.

I held her arm, prying them off my throat. A tiny spark of hope… "Have you been to a doctor yet?"

Brittany's ashamed expression brightened with a small, sad smile. "I don't need to go to a doctor. I just need to look outside my window. Three days ago, a stork built its nest on top of my garage."

I nearly fainted from relief. My neck gave way and rested my head on her shoulder. Oh, God, thank you. _I just might need to take up religion._

"I'm not stupid. It's obviously getting ready to bring me my baby—sorry, ours. I know where babies come from."

"Oh, I love you, I love you so much," I said faintly.

"Okay," said Puck, standing up. "Who wants to do the honours?"

"Leave them alone, Puck," said Mercedes.

"Brittany, sweetheart, that isn't where babies come from," I said, thankfully. I was almost giddy from relief.

It took absolutely forever to get it into her that storks didn't bring babies, and even then, she wasn't completely convinced. Even when Quinn told her the slightly more graphic truth. Girl talk: it wasn't for me.

Mercedes and I went back to the corner, trying to mix together an electronic mashup on her laptop. "I thought you'd tell me when you lost the conscious V," said Mercedes critically.

"I will when I do," I said testily. I hit play and listened to the beat for a minute. "No, I think you need to pitch that a little higher."

Mercedes gave me a look but did as I said. Unlike me, she knew how to read music and was apprehensive of trying to mash the keys together—or something. The pitches were completely different, but we had gotten the speed and arrangement down pact.

"That's better," I said. "Much."

Mike was in front of us, free-styling his dancing talent and doing things that I wasn't sure were humanly possible with the current laws of physics. Brittany came over, too, and the two of them started to dance. Mercedes and I listened to it one time, start to finish, and proclaimed the instrumental perfect. The dancers synched their iPods and borrowed the mp3 to practise and work out a routine among themselves. Mercedes and I were hardly choreographers.

Mercedes and I spent the remaining minutes blending our voices together and figuring out who would sing what, where she could hit those ear-splitting notes. I would be getting my own during the opening number.

All of a sudden, just over Mike's ever-spinning shoulder, I saw the familiar blazer skulking outside the door. Brittany and Rachel noticed, too. The two girls made a bee-line for Blaine. I handed the laptop to Mercedes and said goodbye before following them.

When I was out there, Rachel was in familiar dwarfing hug, Blaine even able to rest his head on top of hers, and Brittany was quizzing Blaine on where babies came from.

He gave me a look. "Um… through sex," was all he said. "Between a boy and a girl," he quickly added.

"Yeah." Brittany nodded enthusiastically. "Having sex sends out this signal to the storks and they come and build a nest, but it's the _storks_ who actually bring the baby."

"That's not how it works," said Blaine, confused. He didn't seem to find the words to explain genetics to Brittany S. Pierce, and settled for saying, "The baby grows inside the woman's belly like a—a seed growing into a tree."

Brittany frowned and squinted hard. "Are you sure? I just thought the big belly was so the storks knew who the baby was for."

"I missed you," said Rachel, breaking away from the giant-sized hug and interrupting the conversation. Blaine smiled down at her.

I took Brittany by the hand and guided her back the dancing troupe to let the lovebirds have their space.

"My parents are going out with their friends on Friday," said Brittany. "And my sister's going to a babysitter because I told my mom I was sleeping over at Santana's house." She started stroking my hand. "So, do you want to come over then?"

After the pregnancy scare, I wasn't sure if I ever wanted to see Brittany naked ever again. Still, there was no worry about sex or pregnancy, especially if alcohol was kept behind a locked cupboard.

"I'd love to," I said, mentally calculating the tips I had accumulated from Dad's shop. "We could go out, if you want."

"Breadstix delivers," replied Brittany with a smile.

***.***

Me and Mike and Santana and Puck showed Mercedes and Kurt and the rest of them what we had figured out to dance to with their song. There was lots of clapping and hugging and compliments, so I think it was pretty awesome. Santana hadn't talked to me since yesterday and I didn't want to talk to her either; she had to get used to the idea of no sweet lady kisses and that Kurt was my boyfriend.

We all sat down and the class slowly stopped cheering when Mr. Schuester came in. Without taking off his brown, speckly, squared jacket, he picked up a red marker and wrote _SEXY_ on the board in big letters, saying it really creepy when he wrote it.

Santana was mopey. "I really hope that's not one of the requirements for Regionals, because with Berry in those tights, we don't stand a chance."

Rachel rolled her eyes. Her fashion sense hadn't really gotten better with Blaine, but it looked like she was _trying_ to dress nicer: her skirt wasn't plaid and her sweater had no crazy animals.

Mr. Schuester took off his jacket and started to circle around us. "No, this isn't about Regionals. I'm less worried about that right now and more worried about the fact that it's become clear to me that some of you have been lacking when it comes to understanding the—the—uh—the intricacies of adult relationships."

We all started giggling and laughing. Kurt blushed bright red.

"Yeah." Mr. Schuester looked awkward and very uncomfortable. "Along with preparing for our Regional next week, I want to spend the week educating ourselves about some of these… intricacies."

"What does _intricacies_ mean?" I asked Kurt.

"The specifics about sex," he muttered, crossing his legs so that he was kind of twisting away from me.

Rachel was worried. "Is this the appropriate forum for that?" We all knew she had joined the Celibacy Club with Quinn.

"Look, whenever we've had, uh, _issues_ in the past that are on our minds or giving us problems, it's always helped us to sing about it." Mr. Schuester looked more excited.

"We should totally sing _3_ by Britney," I said to Kurt.

He gave me a look that said _Are you _kidding_ me?_ "No," he said. "Never."

"It's about sex," I mumbled to myself.

Miss Holiday came in and Mercedes, who was sitting on my other side, put her hands to her face. "Oh, no, it's the crazy salad lady." Miss Holiday was looking really sexy, with tall heels and tight pants and a leather jacket. All the boys started drooling.

"So _ssssssexxxxxxx_…" She stretched the word on forever. "It's just like hugging, only wetter."

"Yeah, it is," cheered Puck.

Kurt stopped blushing and just looked down, crossing one leg even higher over the other.

"So, let's start with the basics," said Miss Holiday, her heeling clicking when she walked around. "Finn! Is it true you thought you got your girlfriend pregnant via _hot tub_?"

Finn had that stupid look on his face. "I have always been dubious."

"And Brittany! You think storks bring babies?" Miss Holiday looked hard at me, half smiling.

"I get my information from Woody Woodpecker cartoons," I said quickly.

Miss Holiday shook her head at both of us. "Well, that's all gonna end right here, right now. Because today, we are gonna get under the covers, all together and get the ditty on the dirty."

Puck was staring at her chest. "I'm so turned on right now."

"Uh, what about those of us who choose to remain celibate?" Rachel put a hand on Quinn, who backed off.

"I admire you," said Miss Holiday. "Although I think you're naïve and possibly frigid, I do admire your choice." It didn't sound like she did. "I think this is a good time for a song." She turned to Mr. Schue, who had a good view of all of Miss Holiday in her tight clothes.

"Oh, yes, okay. Sure." He jumped up and went over to the band.

Miss Holiday held up one finger, swaying around for us. "Rule number one: Every intimate encounter that you're ever going to have in your life is going to start with a touch. Hit it!"

I found out later the song was called _Do You Wanna Touch. _It was a lot of fun, just like Miss Holiday's other substitute time, we danced like we wanted to, cheering and grooving. But this time, it was a lot sexier. Especially when she got me and Santana to dance on the chairs with her.

Kurt slowly sunk lower and lower in his chair. I think he liked it a lot. I was really looking forward to Friday. I pulled him out of it and got him to sing. It's not like the lyrics were really complicated.

Rachel and Quinn weren't really into the fun, but Miss Holiday eventually got them dancing and singing.

All of us were crowded around the piano at the end, breathing hard and laughing.

"So just remember whenever you have sex with someone, you're having sex with everyone they've ever had sex with," said Miss Holiday over all of us. Her blond hair wasn't so straight anymore and her jacket was hanging open. "And everybody's got a random."

"Buzz kill," muttered Puck, picking his bag up.

"Sounds like fun to me," I said. Then I thought about everyone…Ugh.

Kurt just shook his head, pulling his arm tighter around my waist. "No."

***.***

I wasn't all that comfortable with sex—or sexy, for that matter. It was my main concern when I considered pursuing Brittany; her promiscuity and, therefore, her experience. Every time I thought about _us_ I was paranoid someone was reading my thoughts or knew _exactly_ what I was thinking, what we had done. I thought I knew all that I needed to know: condoms for boys, birth control pills for girls.

My phone chirped out _Teenage Dream_. I glanced at my _Wicked_ clock: nine thirty. Frankly, I expected him earlier. I thought maybe my choice of ringtone wasn't really that healthy, but that was beside the point.

After we exchanged greetings, Blaine quickly brought up his problem.

"I know I told you that I would never ask about strategy or behind-the-scenes information that could interpreted as cheating or spying," he said hurriedly. "But your Coach Sylvester came up to me in the Lima Bean."

I had to interject here. "Mostly what the Coach says is complete bull."

"Apparently the judges told Mr. Schuester that a theme is 'sexy'," said Blaine bluntly.

"We aren't cheating," I said defensively. Then, I thought about it. Was Mr. Schue's impromptu Sex Ed class and the surprise visit by Miss Holiday, not to mention the leather and flashing dance number, all preparation to get us sexier? "Whatever Mr. Schue was told, he didn't tell us."

"But you guys _have_ been working on a sexy number," pressed Blaine.

"Not—really—well, a little. We've been getting Health and Sex Ed," I explained.

"Your director's smart." I could tell Blaine was smiling. "Getting you guys used to performing sexy without all the build up of it being a theme at Regionals."

I didn't know anymore. "I wouldn't think they'd have two themes, Blaine."

"They only just introduced themes at all. They can do what they like with them." Blaine was getting agitated.

"This is just Chinese whispers," I protested. "_Coach_ _Sylvester_ told you. Trust me, she's not exactly trustworthy."

After a pause, Blaine said, "Okay," but I was sure he wasn't convinced. "I just wanted to talk to you about this."

"That's all right," I said, relieved. I didn't want our friendship to dissolve because of our competition. I jumped into my bed and tucked my legs under me. "So, what happened with Rachel?"

My not-so-subtle change of conversation worked spectacularly. Blaine went on an energetic rant, describing his date with Rachel in minute detail. I might not be overly ecstatic about the match-up, but at the moment, it was working to make both of them happy. God forbid the Club found out Rachel had another Jesse.

All I did was _mmmm_ and made positive half-noises and the odd comment, watching the hands on my clock spin in circles. I wondered if I was ever like this with Brittany to Mercedes. God, I hoped not. I had to have a talk with Rachel about not breaking Warbler hearts; Blaine was _so_ head-over-heels.

I reached over, pulling my laptop over my legs as Blaine went on. I opened Google and started looking up _romantic ballads_ again. My own music collection—shockingly—had proved itself woefully unhelpful. I knew the type I wanted, but—

"Oh my God," I whispered. I couldn't _believe_ it. I had found a perfect ballad, and it was probably the last song I ever could've pictured.

"I know, right?" said Blaine. "That suit her dad wore was real maroon corduroy. Obviously, I didn't make a comment, and they left us alone after that, but I couldn't believe they still made them anymore."

As Galinda's hands found ten forty-five, I eased the conversation to a close, wished him well with the Warblers and Rachel and managed to hang up to investigate the texts that had been buzzing in my ear for the past fifteen minutes.

It was clearly Brittany. And I mean that literally. The first texts were all pictures of her, taken on her own iPhone. And they weren't exactly G-rated.

It was like an evolution in her bedroom. Cute blue pyjamas with sheep… zig-zag bra and panties with little bows… and nothing, but she had gotten creative with the camera angles. I was tempted to delete them, in case Dad ever spontaneously decided to pick up my phone, but that would be disrespectful—right?

_u like?_

_Kurt!_

What the hell was I meant to say? I found my fingers already working the keyboard.

_Love them. Very nice._

Almost instantly, another text: _"NICE"? not exiting?_

It was the golden rule of the Internet: you're more confident when you don't have to look them in the eye. And you should never turn off auto-correct.

_Very exciting._

A minute passed, but Brittany's grey bubble popped up again. _It's like a preview for Friday._

I actually felt my face burn. That didn't happen often. God, I hoped Mr. Schue's gameplan was to make us more secure with sex. Otherwise, I was going to run into trouble.

***.***

These cookies were getting heavy. I thought it was because of the metal box they were in. The back part of my arms were starting to cramp and get all hard from trying to hold them up.

I poked my nose onto the doorbell again and heard the _ding dong_ from inside. There was some more shouting—half in Spanish, half in English—and then an angry-looking Santana with wet hair threw open the door. "What?" She rubbed water from her eyes and wrung out her hair.

"Surprise!" I lifted the cookies up higher.

Santana hadn't been talking to me all day and she was ignoring me. I didn't think she liked being friends and I wanted to try and make things better. But before I could say any of that, her mother started shouting again.

"_Santana! Cerrar la puerta! You'll catch a cold, mi hija!"_

Santana rolled her eyes. "It's Brittany!" she shouted back.

The voice turned much nicer, but even louder. "Let in your _pequeña amiga_! Hello, Brittany!"

I liked being an _amiga_, even though I could never say the first part.

Santana stepped away and combed her hair through with her fingers. She was wearing a purple robe that used to be really fluffy, but it had gotten thin. She had been in the middle of her bathroom time, obviously. Almost like Kurt, she had a routine when she had her time.

"Where're your siblings?" I asked. It wasn't normal that the house was so empty. I mean, it was small and there was a lot of stuff, but the little girls weren't running and the guys weren't telling everyone to shut up so they could hear the football game.

"The twins are sleeping and Mat and Ric are sleeping over at Paul's place. What the hell did you do to those cookies?" she said, sounding like she was almost tired of me being Brittany and doing Brittany things.

I looked down at the clumps of dough. They didn't spread out and go poof, like normal cookies. "I tried to make cookies, but we didn't have baking soda. In case they were bad I put tons more chocolate chips in, but these are really heavy. They taste good," I added hopefully.

Santana pointed to the couch and I dropped them on it. She took a few, decided that they were pretty good, and started munching.

I looked and made sure that her mother was still in the rec room, watching TV, before I started. "I wanted to talk about—"

"No, you don't," said Santana quickly.

"I just want to explain," I said quietly. "I wanted to tell you that—"

"Let's go to my room," Santana said suddenly, taking another handful of cookies with her.

When we were behind her locked door, Santana stuck a chair under the knob like people do in movies and sat on her bed, cross-legged. "What?"

I tried not to focus on the fact that I could see her panties. They were blue. "I liked it when we made out and stuff, but I just thought that, even if the plumbing was different, if Kurt went with Blaine and did all the stuff we do, I would be hurt."

"Why?" Santana smirked, but there wasn't any friendship in it, like there was before.

"Because when we do that stuff I feel really close and almost like I'm psychic and I can be, like, a part of you and there's all these emotions. With Kurt, I'd talk about them and I know what they are, but I don't know what to call what the emotions with you are—were." Santana looked at me. "Were," I repeated.

"I think it's better without all these feelings," she said casually. "Hell, it's better when it doesn't involve eye contact."

"Yeah, like, in your body, but what about inside—like _really _inside?" I put my hand on my heart. "We did all the things that a couple does—hang out, go for dinner, have fun—but we never talked about what we really were. Like, inside."

Santana sighed and leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "Let's be clear here. I'm not interested in any labels, unless it's on something I shoplift. And we were never a couple."

"How weren't we? We did all the stuff and I know you really liked me and I really liked you. I just… I just think I like Kurt more. When Kurt was confused about what he wanted and who he was, he talked to Mr. Schuester and Miss Pillsbury and his dad." When Santana gave me that look, I finished quickly. "I think we should talk to someone, like an adult."

"Look, there's no more _we_." Santana waved her hands, like she was clearing us off the table. "There's you and there's me and there's our friendship. We were just friends, having fun, but you ended it. What's done is done. No biggie."

"If we were just friends, why do I feel about you like I feel about Kurt instead of like I feel about Quinn and Mercedes?" When Santana didn't say anything and started to open and close her mouth like a drowning fish, I added, "It was because of the sex, wasn't it? That was the stuff that touched us, like, _inside_."

Santana started pulling a loose string on her robe, unraveling the hem a little more. After a long time, she looked back at me. "Probably. I dunno. Sex is just fun, it's not meant to be so important."

"It's important to Kurt and I think it used to be important to us," I said quietly. "It's because it makes you have nothing between the two people, nothing in your head or inside that they can't really see. What's the word for it?"

Santana snorted. "You sound like a hippie flower child. The word's vulnerable."

"When you're both that vulnerable, then you start to love each other and get close inside together." Suddenly, lightning struck me. "That's why you were so sad that I stopped _us_."

Santana didn't answer for a really long time again, picking at her robe. "I think you should go now," she said in a really calm, flat voice. "Thanks for the hard-ass cookies."

"At least they're chocolatey," I added, really disappointed that Santana wanted me to go again. I really wanted to hug her and tell her that I loved her and that Kurt didn't need to know. But that wasn't true or right. He did need to know, he should.

I left, feeling even more confused than when I went in, but I felt much better about Santana and me.

***.***

"I think we've got the sexy thing down," said Blaine, moving his hips suggestively.

I laughed, tipping vanilla flavouring into my cup. "I'm sure you do." Now, I didn't even feel guilty about flirting. I knew it wouldn't lead to anywhere and I was fine with that.

"How're the New Directions handling their new direction?"

"Not that well," I admitted. "Mr. Schue did do a fabulous rendition of _Kiss_ by Prince, but we haven't done another group performance. Sadly, I'm thinking the group number I'm going to be leading will be something like _3_ or _Toxic_."

Blaine made a noise through his drink. "Rachel told me about _Toxic_, she even showed me the tape."

"Oh my God, that's on video?" I laughed, half in mortification, half in fascination. "Any stand-outs in the performance that were truly horrendous?"

"Actually you guys did a pretty good job," he said with a smile, sitting down at our usual table. "The hat work was slick, although your director in the middle was—"

"Not cool?" I offered.

Blaine nodded. "There was an Asian dancer who totally stole the show—"

"Obviously. Mike in his element of elegant dance."

"—and Brittany, clearly, is an excellent dancer and very sexy herself. Lucky man, you are," he added with a wink.

There was nothing I could add to that. I couldn't even muster the courage to make a joke about not stealing her. "What did you think about Rachel?" I asked instead.

"Definitely up there, in terms of—ahem—sexy dancing." He started to blush.

"Oh, so you can compliment my girlfriend until I die from embarrassment, but you can't admit your own did a good job with sexual choreography?"

"Yes," Blaine laughed. "Of course." He stretched out on the booth. "But what I wanted to talk to you about was, well, _you_."

I tried to remember my routine. "Ah, when I covered Mercedes's chest with the hats?"

"I was very much surprised at how easily you dealt with it, considering how you reacted to hearing sexy as a theme and even more so how you handle talking about sex, even about your girlfriend." He took a drink.

"So, you think I looked… sexy?" The word physically hurt, pushing itself past my lips. I wasn't sure how I was meant to feel about that.

"All in all, yes, but you yourself said you were more of a romance guy and that sex squicked you out. You made some… unusual expressions, to say the least, but it was very well done." Blaine looked more embarrassed than me. "When you looked like you were having fun, then you were better, but I think you were trying too hard at times."

" 'Unusual expression'?" I remembered practising my routine in a full-length mirror to get it right, including drilling myself on acting sexy.

Blaine played with the hot wrapper on the cup. "You know, really elaborate and overdone and kind of—resembling one with gas pains."

My eyes popped out and I realised this was more than friends teasing each other now. In a week, I had to go and sell sex to the judges, but I had about as much sex appeal and knowledge as a baby penguin!

"It's okay, I'm sure you can work on it with someone before competition."

I gave it a moment of thought before turning a look to him that was part puppy-dog eyes, part ORRLY and part daring.

"No! It would hardly be fair; we're each other's competition. Kurt, please. Stop looking at me like that! ... I'm sure it would be fun, but… no. Please—Fine. I'll come home with you tonight, but only if I can drive the Escalade to my house. Good God. Ugh. But then you're paying for the taxi."

One uncomfortably victorious car ride later, and I had Blaine in my bedroom, starving off his laughter at my pitiful attempts. I began to wonder why I had bothered to coerce him into teaching me how to be sexy. God, that didn't sound right.

In my head, the scenario was a lot more awkward and funny. In real life, it was just embarrassing.

Due to my father's orders about locked doors, we were sitting on my bed, staring at my reflection and I was trying to arrange my delicate features into something that even vaguely resembled the words he was throwing at me.

"All right, so give me sensual." Blaine's face was red from the effort of not laughing. "But don't make fun of it. Like, really try."

Sensual… it was a better word than some, but the ideas that came to mind weren't exactly things that I associated with my own face. Those perfume/cologne advertisements and even the beer ads with those gorgeous actors… alright. I took a deep breath, threw my head back and tried to come with a clean slate: biting my lip back and narrowing my eyes, almost snarling.

Blaine let out a high-pitched breath and went on calmly. "Okay. Now give me—sultry."

Sultry was something that belonged with East Indian belly dancers with perfumed incense and rich silks. This was not a world I belonged in.

Still, I tried. And, still, I failed.

Blaine let out a small laugh and said in faint disbelief, "Kurt, they're all sort of looking the same."

A hot trickle of shame went down my spine. I stood up and dried my sweating palms on my jeans. "That's because the face I'm actually doing is called uncomfortable."

"Maybe you can only be sexy when you don't try," suggested Blaine.

Yeah, like that was any better. Accidental sexiness was _not _what I needed. I needed a switch that would go on and off.

I shouldn't have tried to be all fun and light-hearted about this. All other teenage guys could talk about sex and joke around about it just fine; I just wasn't like other guys. I knew I was feminine, but girls could talk about it with their sleepovers. Hell, I had been to a few; they were all down with sexy talk. Something was wrong with me and no amount of staring at my own face in the mirror would change that. All I could see was my own flaws. God, this wasn't healthy.

"This is pointless, Blaine," I said, picking over my iron bedframe to avoid eye-contact. "I don't know how to be sexy because—because I don't know the first thing about sex." There, I'd said it.

Blaine's face lost most of its colour and he smiled coyly. "Kurt, you're blushing."

I stuck my hands in my back pockets, suddenly feeling awful to having anything touching me. "I've tried watching those movies," I admitted, trying to force my mind to not bring up stills, "but I just get so horribly depressed. And I think about how they were all kids once, and they all have mothers—God, what would their mothers think?—and why would you get that tattoo there?"

I was in a bit of a panic ramble and Blaine sensed that this was more than just playing around to get his least sexy friend sexified. This was difficult for me. He turned to face me, crossing his legs, his blazer crinkling around his legs.

"Then maybe we should have a conversation about it," he said, trying to be helpful. "I'll tell you what I know, but you have more experience than me. I mean, I know more of the gay stuff, but we could swap stories. I've only ever swapped saliva with Rachel, I'm—new to this stuff, with girls, I mean."

Suddenly he was almost as awkward as me. His unfailing confidence started to dwindle and his pretty-boy shine dulled.

I sat on the opposite corner of my bed, but he just inched forward. "Please, I don't—I don't want to know the graphic details," I begged. "I like romance. That's why I like Broadway musicals, because the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets."

"Okay." Blaine nodded, thinking. "Then what would you like to call what you get up to with Brittany?"

"Not sex," I said quickly. "I mean, I still—kinda—still have my—my virginity." That hot trickle spread across my cheeks.

"Are you ashamed?" asked Blaine gently.

I shrugged.

"If you wanna talk—"

"I don't think what I do with Brittany can be considered sex," I said in a rush. "It's different. Sex is… it's—" Words failed me, and Blaine misinterpreted my stumble.

"Sure, sex is losing your virginity, but I just know Brittany gave you a blowjob."

I physically flinched and I felt myself gag a bit at the thought.

"What word would be better?" asked Blaine quietly. "Believe me, there's tons."

"That is what a hooker gives a John," I muttered. "What… what Brittany gave me was different, it's—God. There's really no word for it. I just knew she loved me when she did it. Like there was this semi-psychic link between us, and when I—when I reciprocated, I felt the same thing."

Blaine didn't answer for a while, and I thought I had overshared, but at last, he said, "So calling it sex cheapens what you do? Sex is cheap?"

Bingo. "Yeah, exactly." I felt like there was a heavy cloud between us, like something tangible, that I could reach out and touch. "Sex is everywhere. You know, movies, music, TV, even like, with Santana and a lot of jocks and people like that. I think they just go through the motions and there's nothing there, because they get it all the time. It's lost its value."

Blaine laughed a little, but it wasn't a mean laugh, more of a _I can't believe this, holy shit_ laugh. "You're probably right, but even with all the love and the intimacy, there's the STDs and protection and—"

"Please." I felt my heart drop and my throat clog up. "That's the stuff I don't wanna talk about. The—the serious stuff."

"Kurt, you're going to have to learn about it someday," said Blaine gently.

I thought about the parties and the alcohol. Brittany, in all her well-meant cheering-up, took my virginity the first time, and the second, we got closer to sex and I had kissed Blaine. I didn't want to know what might happen the next time, if there was a next time, especially if I was single.

My eyes burned and I nodded thickly. "Well, not today," I said hoarsely. "I think I've done quite enough for today, thank you." I reached behind me and opened my bedside drawer, throwing a set of keys to Blaine. "The Escalade is the key with the black rubber top," I said numbly. "You can borrow it for the week, give it back at Regionals."

The keys fell harmlessly into Blaine's lap. He picked them up the Escalade's key and, giving me a look halfway between pity and persuasion, he left me on my bed, chewing my perfectly rounded fingernails.

***.***

Kurt needed help. He might not want to learn about the important stuff, and maybe I was the wrong one to talk to him about it, but you were supposed to get these talks by your parents.

Kurt told me a while ago that his father owned an auto repair shop, so I picked the next day to drop by after an extended Warblers practise, since Dalton had a day off for a Teaching the Teacher day.

There was quite a few cars in the garage, some with the hoods up, most not, and only one man working. I grimaced, wondering if he was still upset about me sleeping off some drinks.

I was also well aware that I was in a blue-collar workplace with a wool-blend coat and private school uniform. "Need a hand?" I shouted ahead of me.

Burt remembered me, his lips thinning, but he said, "Sure, why don't you hand me that carburetor?" He pointed to a shelf full of spare bits and pieces.

I picked up the carburetor and handed it to him. He took his hat off and wiped his forehead. "How'd you know which one it was?" He started to manoeuvre it into place.

"My dad and I rebuilt a '59 Chevy in our driveway two summers ago. One of his many attempts at bonding," I said carefully, crossing my arms. I didn't want to be here much longer than I had to be, but I was really worried that something might happen with Kurt.

"Huh," said Burt, leaving the car he was working on and drying his hands on a rag. "You here looking for parts?"

I squared myself up and smiled. "I wanted to talk to you about Kurt, actually."

This took his off guard, and his first instinctive question made my heart ache a little bit. "Is he okay?" His whole demeanour changed as he came towards me.

I decided to just roll with it. "Have you ever talked to him about sex?"

He pointed the rag at me. "Are you gay or straight or what?"

"Mmmm, I'm figuring that out," I said cagily. "Gay, but I kinda have a girlfriend."

Burt brightened up instantly. "Okay. Good. He needs someone like himself to, you know, talk to about this… stuff."

"Well, that's my point," I said, exasperated. "I've tried talking to him, but he basically puts his fingers in his ears and starts singing."

Burt smiled, shrugging like _What are you gonna do about it?_ "When he's ready, he'll listen." He was just as uncomfortable with the idea of talking about sex as his son was.

"I'm worried that it might be too late," I said. "Sex Ed classes are rare in schools, McKinley's lucky to have one, but sure, Kurt can know what he needs to about girls, but he's bisexual, Mr. Hummel, and these classes never discuss what sex is like for gay kids. With him, all the bases have to be covered, and what if he breaks up with Brittany one day and, I don't know, goes to a party? Has a few drinks? Maybe he'll end up alone with a guy and start fooling around, and he's not going to know about—about the nuances with a guy, or the difference with protection and STDs." I stepped forward, and I could tell Burt was uncomfortable. "Kurt is the most moral, compassionate, sensitive person I've ever met."

"He gets that from his mother," said Burt fondly.

"And I'm just blown away by your guys' relationship. When I came home with a girl, my dad was overjoyed to hear that I had gotten over my phase." The memory made my throat close and my eyes heat up. Burt returned to his car, tightening screws absently. "That all his attempts at doing manly things, such as building cars, had worked to straighten me out. Google is a wonderful tool and everything that we need to know is on there, but Kurt won't go looking for it. I think it would be cool if you used your relationship in a way that my dad never would."

Burt gave me the same kind of look Kurt gives when he's upset and not wanting to show it.

"I've overstepped, haven't I?"

"You have," said Burt in a hard voice, picking up a torque wrench.

"I'm sorry."

And I left. Those wrenches would make for good weapons.

***.***

I didn't know whether it was the week's theme of sexy, or horrid _Afternoon Delight_, or simply Spring Fever, but Brittany was getting more physical in public. I didn't mind a hug or a kiss or a little handholding. In fact, I loved it. I liked being in public with her; it made us seem more real. But the sexting, the naked-pictures-sending, the flirting that was becoming progressively dirtier, and the teasing remarks about Friday were putting me on edge. Not that I didn't enjoy them, to an extent. It was fun and sweet, but with the work we were putting into the song and Regionals—well, excuses could be made forever, but the truth was that it was making me extremely uncomfortable and I wasn't brave enough to tell Brittany to knock it off.

I was looking forward to the tunnel-vision that cooking gave me, relaxing and making supper. But just as I was staring in the pantry, looking for something to jump out at me, Dad came in, the heavy thud of his boots preceding him.

"Hey, Dad," I said, looking at the canned tomatoes and wondering if Dad and Carol would wait for chicken marinara.

I was ready to chastise him about snacking, but the whir of the refrigerator opening never came, neither did the thud of his boots. He just stood there. I took my mind off Italian and looked back at him.

Holding them like a fan of money, he slapped seven or eight small pamphlets with colourful titles and pictures of couples. _Gay_ couples. As soon as I saw the first title I knew what I was in for: _Boys Who Love Boys_.

"What are those?" I asked blankly. You could see the colour drain from my face.

"Those are some pamphlets I picked up from the free clinic," said Dad with an awkward _whoosh_ of air. "I thought it might help the process along because it is time you and I had 'the talk'."

I was absolutely horrified. That was his _I'm the parent _voice and I knew I wouldn't win this, but I couldn't just submit. "No, it's not," I said in a small voice.

"Yes, it is," he insisted.

Childish, I know, but I stuck my fingers in my ears and started singing—and not even in tune. I didn't need to know about sex—I knew where stuff went and to respect and love her/him and all that. That was the important stuff.

Dad physically pushed me into a chair and I sat down hesitantly, determined to keep some dignity and my views. I didn't want sex to turn into this dangerous monster, like they talked about in Sex Ed, or like the cheap thing you give away at parties, like the rest of the world seemed to think it was.

"I want to do this even less than you do."

_Oh no, you don't._

"This is going to suck for both of us, but we are going to get through it together and we will both be better men because of it." Dad looked like he was suiting up for battle. He sat down and his voice became softer. "Now, first, most of the—the, um, mechanics of what you're going to be doing is covered in the pamphlets." He nudged them towards me. I took them and stood up. "Hey, sit down. We're just getting started."

I jumped at his voice, but I sat down and stared at the pamphlets.

The blond guy on the top one was really cute. California beach kind of look to him, green eyes, tan, waves behind him. Grey buttoned shirt that had the first two undone to reveal a white t-shirt. I swear, I memorised what that guy looked like. I was determined to not listen to what my Dad wanted to tell me, about all the weird Latin names for STDs and stuff and how they'll never go away. But that's not what he said at all.

"You know, for most guys, sex is just… You know…"

_No, I don't know_.

"It's this thing we always want to do." Dad didn't look at me, and I didn't blame him. I was trying to see the redhead on the third pamphlet down. "It's fun. Feels great. But we're not really thinking too much about, you know, how it makes us feel on the inside or how the other person feels about it."

This pretty much coincided with how I thought guys thought about sex. It made me a little sad to think that sitcoms weren't all that wrong.

"Women are different?" I asked hopefully.

Dad smiled a little. "Only because they get that it's about something more than just the physical. When you're… when you're intimate with somebody in that way, you're exposing yourself. You're never going to be more vulnerable, and that scares the hell out of a lot guys." I thought about that for a minute. It certainly made sense; I had gotten a taste of that a while ago. Dad tried to spark some humour. "Believe me, I can't tell you how many buddies I've got who have gotten in way too deep with a girl who said she was cool with just hooking up."

"But I wouldn't do that," I said hesitantly.

Dad gave me this look that told me he really wanted to ask why but also didn't want to make it seem like he wanted me to hook up.

"Being intimate and being in love belong together," I said quickly, forgetting about the cute boys momentarily. "I mean, I haven't had sex, but being—being intimate, that feeling, that belongs with someone you're in love with."

"That's—uh—" For a second, I thought I was wrong, and the world really was the MTV Beach House and all my nightmares about sex were coming true. "That's very mature of you, Kurt," said Dad, sitting back, looking surprised. "But just keep that idea that sex and love should stay together, because, especially with guys, guys think sex is just sex. It's gonna be easier to come by and when you start, you're not going to want to stop. Just remember that it means something, that it does something to your heart, your self-esteem, to keep it for your love—whoever that might be."

"So, you're saying I shouldn't have sex?" I asked.

Dad lifted the corners of his mouth, but he didn't smile. "On your thirtieth birthday, it's a great gift to give to yourself."

"Oh," I said, pulling my lips tight and mulling over what he had said.

"Kurt," Dad said quietly. "When you're ready, no matter who it's with, I want you to be able to—to do everything with them, but when you're ready just remember that you told me you think sex and love belong together. Use it to connect to another person. Don't throw yourself around like you don't matter. Because you do matter, Kurt."

I nodded, feeling vaguely unwell yet somehow extremely thankful, fulfilled almost, that Dad had gone out of his way to ensure I was comfortable and knowledgeable. I looked down at the cute guys again, already grimacing at what might lay behind them.

"I'll order pizza," said Dad, standing up. "You can go and look over your pamphlets or… think. I don't know. Do what you want to do."

"I take a plate with me to my room while I look over my new pamphlets." I gathered them gingerly, wincing internally. Just before I left to go back downstairs, I said, "Thank you, Dad," and really meant it.

He smiled and told me I was welcome.

As I left, I dug my phone out of my pocket and saw the string of messages left by a Miss Brittany S. Pierce. They got progressively racy and the earliest time stamp was just after school let out. I told her I'd be back around nine and, with great trepidation, opened the first pamphlet.

***.***

Santana was still ignoring me, but it wasn't really in a mean way anymore. It was more like she was scared of me, but that was dumb. No one needed to be scared of me.

After lunch, just when everyone was coming back in and getting their stuff for classes, Santana came up to me with a "Hi, Britt-Britt", her hands holding each other and her head half-way down. Like she was sad.

I made myself smile. "Hi."

"Can we just talk?" she asked really smally.

I looked back at her. No cookies, no offerings, just a really sad-looking Santana. "But we never do that."

"When you came over with those God-awful cookies, you made me do a lot of thinking. And I know why I'm such a bitch all the time," she said really quietly. Her voice started to shake, like voices do when people are about to cry. It sounded a little wet, too. "I'm a bitch because I'm angry. I'm angry because I've got all these feelings for you… feelings that I'm afraid of dealing with, because I'm afraid of dealing with the consequences."

That made sense, but when Santana kept squeezing her own hands, it made me want to hold her hand and just let her cry. Because she needed to cry. Either cry or scream, and I didn't want her to scream.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say here?" she added.

I nodded a little. "I don't understand why you care," I muttered, "but I know that you do."

"Care about what? You?" Santana's perfect eyebrows were getting high.

"Other people." I shrugged. "Kurt doesn't care, I don't care."

"Kurt does care, he's just too proud to tell you." That was the Santana I knew: a little mean, and very truthful. "He doesn't like the way kids talk about him, the looks they give him, and the shit that's thrown his way. And I'm scared of that happening to me." By the end of her little speech, she had gotten back to being Emotional Crying Santana. "I want to be with you, but… I can't go through what you and Kurt went through."

I reached out and touched her arm, the only part of her that I could touch. "If anyone were to ever make fun of you, you would either kick their ass or slash them with your vicious, vicious words."

Santana leaned herself into my hand and nodded, but her eyes got really glassy, like tears were almost there. "I know, but I'm so afraid of what everyone will say behind my back. But, even if I can't go through with it, I need to accept that I love you. I love_ you_."

Oh no. Oh God no. Everyone likes it when people love them, but not like this when you already have a boyfriend and an almost-girlfriend whose relationship confuses you.

"I don't wanna be with Sam, or Finn, or Artie—I just want you," finished Santana. "Please say you love me back," she begged.

I nodded. "Yeah, I love you, too. Loads and loads of love, and I would totally be with you if it weren't for Kurt."

Mean Santana returned. "_Kurt_? What does he have to do with anything?"

"I love him, too, and I don't want to hurt him, that's not right, that's why I wanted to stop being with you. Because it felt like cheating, because I loved you, and—"

Santana stopped me, if not I would've run on forever. "Wait! So, you're actually seriously with Kurt? It's not like last time where he's so soft and girl-like that it was fun?"

"I love him," I said again. It was all I thought I needed to say. "But if Kurt and I were ever gonna break up, and I'm lucky that you're still single, I'm so yours."

Santana went away from my arm. "Don't! I'm _not_ playing second-best at the Pity Party for Porcelain Hummel!"

I tried to hug her, but she just yelled at me to go away. She didn't listen when I told her I was sorry, or that I wished things could be different, where she didn't need to be hurt.

But she just ran away.

I closed my locker and went to find my class, feeling like I was carrying a dead cat in my backpack or was trafficking illegal unicorn horns for poachers.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>So, I'm really curious what people think of the background couple that is Raine. . . <strong>  
>(aka. RachelBlaine)


	15. Marry the Night

**Disclaimer**: Their original songs sucked. So I didn't use them. :)

**This is my adaption of the episodes s02e16: Original Song.  
><strong>

**There was so much Finchel in this episode, so little that I could work with, that I decided to make it the most emotionally stressful one for Kurttany.  
><strong>

**However, I was good at characterizing Kurt before because I've felt that confusion about being bisexual. I've never been cheated on, so I'm working off books I've read and TV shows I've watched and how I _think_ Kurt/I would react.  
><strong>

**BTW, their original songs were terrible. Honestly, _Hell to the No_ and _Trouty Mouth_ were the only good ones and, obviously, they weren't used. So their setlist consists of a Kurttany ballad, a boys number and a group number. Enjoy.  
><strong>

**Ballad: watch?v=lzXNbhITKIQ  
>Boys Number Song: watch?v=X1bGEfbwJrE<br>Boys Number Dance (approx.): watch?v=ge-7g6hgbQU  
>Group Number: watch?v=fT9GfLVVlHg<br>**

* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

Original songs was a terrible idea, especially since, just a few days before competition, we had the choreography almost down, the vocals nearly perfect and were ready to sell it. Plus, the guys' number (the only one I wasn't a feature in) was getting sexed up. My Lord, that was an awkward conversation with Mike Chang. We were ready, just a few more hardcore rehearsals and it would be perfect.

And Rachel and Quinn wanted to (literally) write a new setlist?

Puck said it best: "Bitches, _please_."

All the guys had been busting their asses to learn pretty intricate choreography to a rocked out version of a not-so-famous Gaga song, but with a new song most of that hard work would be wasted. Plus, the massive group number Mercedes and I had put together was a mashup, and that alone was a ton of work.

All the individuality, heart and soul couldn't make up for good old-fashioned hard work and effort—effort that had been given over weeks, months of practise.

Besides, we had heard Rachel's attempts at song writing. They weren't things we could showcase at Regionals to get us to New York.

Others made all my arguments; Rachel was shot down and Quinn put her voice to rest. Although I was scared they would come to us in the green room, a new setlist all written out, with Rachel being the star again.

The bell rang soon after Rachel had finally surrendered, and as soon as we were dismissed, Brittany ducked out.

I went to her locker and found her struggling to yank it open, her feet planted on either side of the lock, pulling with all her might. She released it and her fingers turned the knob clumsily. I knelt down beside her and smoothly opened it. She pulled her hair out from her headband and used it as a curtain to hide her face from me.

"What's wrong?" I asked, pinning her hair back again. Her cheeks were a blotchy red and her eyes rimmed. Little specks of dirt were in her hair and her make-up had been rubbed off in a hurry; streaks of eyeliner were lead to her temples.

"Coach Sylvester stuffed Santana's locker with dirt and it fell on us," she said numbly. "Did I get it all off?"

I put a hand on her back. "Mostly," I said. "You know, she's never bothered you before."

Brittany shook her head rigorously. "Nuh-uh, Santana's my best friend. She's never bothered me."

"I meant Coach Sue," I said suspiciously. "Why, what happened with Santana?"

Brittany's eyes got massive. "Nothing happened. Why?"

I actually sat down, my capris pants getting smudged. I guided her face towards me. Britts was not in a good state. The level sof fear and sadness on her face, they weren't things I thought she could feel. "If something happened—anything at all—you know you can tell me. I won't tell anyone, I promise on my life."

"Pinkie promise," said Brittany seriously. She took a long sniff, and the snot that comes before a heart-wrenching cry went back up her nose.

I held out my pinkie and locked it with hers. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Santana and I are having problems being friends," said Brittany sadly. "We're just—things aren't easy like they used to be." I kept my hand locked with hers, prompting her. "There's complicated stuff. I mean, we're best friends, we love each other, right? That's normal?"

I had a sinking feeling where this was going. Santana's arm around Brittany's waist… the way Santana got overly protective… Brittany used to lean on Santana when a member of the Glee Club sang a love song…

"Yeah. That's normal." I forced the words to leave my mouth.

"Well…" Brittany sniffed again. "Friends have _fun_, right?"

My stomach churned and I started to hyperventilate. Tears burned behind my eyes and my throat constricted from above, forcing my voice out hoarsely. "What kind of _fun_?"

Brittany shrugged.

"Like, going to movies?" I asked.

"I was meaning, like, _really, really _good best friends, can they have fun in the bedroom and still be friends, even if they love each other?"

I leaned against the locker, Brittany's open locker door hid my face from view. The cold steel felt good. "That's not friends anymore," I whispered. I was going to kill Santana, manipulating Brittany like this… "That's called being a couple."

There was quiet on the other side of the locker door for a long time, but then Brittany's head appeared suddenly.

"What if the plumbing's different?" Brittany begged, distraught. "Is that still cheating?"

I refrained from calling her stupid, but only just. "What if I went and had sex with Blaine, would that be cheating on you? Would that hurt your heart and make you think that I don't love you, or that you couldn't trust me anymore? Even if the rest of the world and Santana didn't count that as cheating, I would, and I would be hurt." I swallowed, trying to get rid of that lump in my throat. "I _am_ hurt."

Brittany looked at her high white socks. "Please don't cry," she said quietly. "I didn't want to hurt you."

I took a deep breath, but all I felt like doing was screaming. I dug my nails into my scalp, trying to get myself under control.

Brittany launched herself forward and grabbed my hands. "Don't rip your head off!"

I sat back, almost shaking in a combination of rage, disgust and sadness. My blurring vision was filled with big blue eyes, tears streaming from them, but she wasn't crying. Not yet.

Brittany might be dim, but she needed to know what was wrong with this, how deeply wrong this was. If I could hold back my tears long enough to explain, that is.

"Santana manipulated you," I whispered. "I don't know why, I thought that if nothing else, she cared about you. Just like Mercedes said when we first started to go out, you are so out of my league that it's not funny. Not because I'm the school fag, but because I'm not good-looking or popular or talented in any way that should mean that the most beautiful blond cheerleader in school should take any interest in me. I'll be the first to admit that I'm insecure, that I'm worried about my clothes, and my hair, and my rep, and my voice on a daily basis. That I know nothing about love and nothing about sex. Santana knows how much cheating would hurt me, because I'm so insecure about sex, and that I couldn't stand you being that—that vulnerable, that close and intimate with someone else, when I'm the only one who you should be sharing that with, when you know how much it means to me, how—"

My voice had progressively gotten worse, cracking and loosing its tone, before finally giving out on me. Brittany wasn't faring much better, and I think she got it in her head that this was really wrong—and even if it wasn't, it had hurt me a lot—because she broke down soon after me, nearly choking me in a death grip of a hug.

We were on the ground for a long time, just crying. Every now and then one of us would try to continue, but we couldn't sustain a conversation in these states of guilt and… I couldn't describe how I felt. No words exist.

Eventually, Brittany's vague mumblings turned into "I'm sorry"s, and we slowly got ourselves together. Brittany sat back down on her knees, and I pulled myself into a sitting position.

"That's not even what I was upset about," said Brittany nervously.

"It can't be much worse than that, trust me," I assured her, drying my eyes with my hand.

"I told Santana that me and her were over and we were going to stop, because I know I love you and I love her, but I'm your girlfriend, and you were here first. That's what Santana was upset about, that I didn't want to be with her." Brittany crawled back to her locker and pulled her backpack on.

I would settle for love, monogamy, and being in love with someone else. I had never felt so relieved as when I had let out all those tears. There was a bit of an aching, empty spot in my chest, but Brittany was trying to do the right thing and make things right, and that counted for a lot. Not everything, but a lot.

She gave me a hand up and her fingers started to curl together anxiously. I pulled her into another hug and kissed her.

"I think I love you more than Santana," admitted Brittany.

"Come on," I muttered, taking her hand and walking her to the closest bathroom, which happened to be the girls'. Whatever, last year, no one would begrudge me a space in the girls' washroom.

We got cleaned up, Brittany reapplied her makeup and I restyled my hair, trying not to look at her reflection. When we were done, Brittany looked sadder than ever.

"Do you know what manipulation means?" I asked.

She shook her head, which was lowered to her chest.

I sighed, feeling awful, as though I were responsible for being like this. "Look at me. Manipulation means one person taking advantage of another person with something they can't control. Here, it was because you love everyone so much, and Santana manipulated that to be with you."

She hugged me again, repeating again and again how sorry she was. I knew that. I didn't need to hear that. I needed to hear that she understood how important to me sex was, and that maybe, just maybe, it was still important to her.

"Are you still coming over tonight?" asked Brittany, like she already knew the answer.

"If only just to rehearse," I promised, giving her hand one last squeeze.

***.***

I felt like I was now dragging a whole litter of dead kitties behind me, like hanging off my ankle like criminals have. One dead kitty for every time I had made Kurt hurt like that by kissing Santana. All day, I felt like crying more and more until I actually left in the middle of last period to go and cry in the washroom.

I decided to walk all the way home with my heavy backpack, just so I could be alone and let myself feel miserable. I hated Santana, I hated what she had made me do to Kurt, and I hated myself for being so stupid to let her do it.

I waited for my family to leave, then ordered Breadstix for delivery and started to "make myself presentable", as Kurt called it. I even found the pretty napkins with little swirly gold patterns on them.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and I yelled that he could come in. Kurt wandered into the living room, wearing the same vest and short pants he wore that day. He smiled, but it was more like he knew he was supposed to smile so he did, instead of really being happy.

"You look great," he said dimly, looking at his shoes. They were nice shoes, but not really _that _nice.

"I really am sorry," I said again, my heart crunching behind my chest. I had probably said it a hundred million times, but there was just something really sad about how he looked, like I had done the worst thing ever.

"I believe you, I love you," he said with feeling, sitting down.

I sat down beside him and put my arms around his neck, kissing him just where his skin disappeared under his collar. "But?"

"But I'm hurt. Like a real cut, it takes time to heal over," he said, holding my hand on him. He cleared his throat. "So, did you have any idea what kind of song you'd like to sing with me at Regionals?"

I nodded, going to my sister's room and coming back with a CD from a movie. "It's the lead song," I told him, putting it in my CD player and giving him the little book of lyrics.

And I sang it for him, start to finish, all on my own. It was a real love song, and at one point he started to tear up again. When I had finished, he swallowed and smiled a real, crying-like smile this time. His eyes were kinda red and his lips were shaking.

"I'm sorry," Kurt said, trying to get himself calm again like in the hallway. He put his hands on his knees and rolled his shoulders together, breathing shakily. "I'm just—I'm trying not to blame you for this. It's Santana's fault, she should've known better, and you didn't know there was anything wrong about it—"

I kissed him again, this time on the lips. He started to kiss me back, but he stopped and put his hands on my shoulders, pushing me away.

"Does sex mean anything to you anymore?" he asked quietly. "Like, does it still make any impact inside, in your heart, when someone kisses you, or touches you?"

It was like what I had talked to Santana about. Everyone talked about it like something really special and important, and I knew Kurt thought like that, but… I didn't really know. I tried listening to my heart, but it wasn't saying anything, so I said what I had planned on saying with Santana.

"Most of the time, it just feels like nothing, like physically it's lots and lots of fun. With you it feels totally different," I said, trying to find words to say it. "Like, it's so strong and powerful that it kinda scares me, and I love you so much—"

"And with Santana? Nevermind," he said quickly, going super-pale and his nails digging in. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

I didn't know how important this was in the big picture, whether it made a difference with how much I loved them—him, Santana had hurt us too much. Just him. I was so confused.

"It doesn't mean so much. I mean, we'd been doing that for so many months, I think it lost its magic, but it felt important. Not as powerful, but still good." I didn't have the words in my head to describe what I was feeling. I just knew my body felt better with Santana and I felt better with Kurt.

Kurt let me kiss him again. I tried to be slow and careful and really feel everything we were talking about. But mostly, I just felt lucky that he still let me touch him after knowing that I had done this with Santana.

We made out for a long time. But sometimes, for a whole minute or longer, we'd kinda slow down and he'd just be holding me. I think that made things better, or at least a little bit better, just getting the chance to be with each other. For the first time in forever, I was with him without feeling a little guilty, or like I wasn't good enough, and I loved it. I felt so relaxed and he was so incredible and wonderful and… I really needed new words instead of just more feelings that I couldn't put into words.

***.***

I think I was glad that the first part of the night was insanely awkward and painful, so all the negativity got out in the open, because the rest of the night was simply blissful. We had fun and cracked jokes, and we went back to her bedroom to make out, which just kept on going until we were naked, again. But I didn't care. I was hurt, but I think I had forgiven her for a lot of it. Falling in love she couldn't help. The cheating was a mix of manipulation and lying, both of which were due to Santana. And she had never intended to hurt me.

Britts loved me. And even though we didn't do much of anything, we got to talk and I got the opportunity to hold her. Just knowing that she was with me instead of Santana or any other boy or girl made me feel better. Luckier. More loved.

No what Brittany did, you could never doubt her motives.

That's what I had to tell myself.

***.***

I loved these costumes. The colour was so bright and they felt a little like water. Tina told me they were silk. They were pretty, little jewels around the neck and a big bow around the waist. The leggings were annoying, because they were a little short, and the black boots were ugly, but they made an awesome noise when we walked. The guys looked really sharp, all in black, but they weren't as pretty. Well, except for Kurt, but Kurt was always pretty.

Everyone was stretching and warming up. There were lots of _WhoooOOOOoooOOOO_'s going around and half-done dance steps everywhere, with Mike Chang giving Puck a last minute review of the boys' sexy dance moves. Santana was ignoring me in a mean way now, but I thought it was for the best, even though I still wanted to be best friends with her. Santana running away from me stopped me from telling her that I had told Kurt or that he was mad at me, even though he hid it very well.

Kurt was still sitting in front of the mirror with the Hollywood lights on them, getting himself ready. The Warblers had done a fantastic job, and Blaine was such a good performer, that I knew he was worried.

I put my hands on his arms from behind him. "We're going to do perfectly," I said. "We're totally gonna win."

Kurt smiled a little, taking my arms off him. "You know, I mean every word I'm going to sing," he said, embarrassed, as though all the stuff that had happened was supposed to mean that we weren't a couple anymore.

I nodded. He still loved me. "I know."

The lights _binged_ at us, and Mr. Schue herded us backstage to prepare for our first song. There was a little bit of a pep talk and then there was a long and loud Shhing Battle. The whole room went really black and then Kurt went to stand where the little white X of tape was, somewhere in the far middle of the stage.

The piano started up, these little notes, before a bright spotlight broke the dark and lit him up. He was singing really deeply and his voice sounded almost round, like it was ringing.

"_Everybody needs inspiration,  
>Everybody needs a song"<em>

I stepped out on the stage and another spotlight hit me, following me like a laser pointer when I walked slowly over to the middle to finish the first verse.

"_A beautiful melody,  
>When the nights are long"<em>

Kurt stopped looking into the audience and he looked back at me, but it wasn't _at_ me. It was, like, through me—past me. Like he was looking at Puck and Mr. Schuester behind me, just going through the motions.

_"'Cause there is no guarantee,  
>That this life is easy"<em>

We sounded good, but there was something missing. Like a kind of power or strength, like a little wavering or that special, vulnerable look in his eyes when he sang _I Wanna Hold Your Hand_. It was too perfect, almost professional, and that hurt more than when he was angry and broken.

It kinda hurt me to make myself sing the words when they felt like Kurt was reminding me of what I used to be. I knew it wasn't what he meant, but that was what it felt like.

_ "Yeah, when my world is falling apart  
>When there's no light to break up the dark<br>That's when I, I, I, I look at you_

_"When the waves are flooding the shores  
>And I can't find my way home anymore<br>That's when I, I, I, I look at you"_

We crossed spotlights and ended up on the opposite ends of the stage. Kurt finished his long note and his one little _"When I look at you"_ all in one breath, like those pros who don't need to breathe at all when they sing.

I tried hard to try and make the song a conversation, like, talking to him. Like we were still in my bedroom.

_"I see forgiveness,  
>I see the truth"<em>

Kurt's sad eyes smiled a little bit, but he still wasn't ready to completely forgive me, but his voice started to waver.

_"You love me for who I am,  
>Like the stars hold the moon"<em>

I came in a little early, singing the next line with him even though the last line before the chorus was my solo. I knew I messed up, but it wasn't too bad. Plus, I think Kurt liked the fact that that line was the one we sang together. I could see him swallow and he looked at me, right in my eye, and he started to go to that place again. I almost wished he hadn't, even though the song turned out better. Kurt was in pain again and, win or lose, that wasn't worth it.

_"Right there where they belong,  
>And I know I'm not alone"<em>

We continued the chorus together, slowly getting closer, and harmonizing and switching the _I_'s. We sounded good together, but I was wondering if that was only because real, emotional singing comes from a place of hurt. On the very last line of the chorus, I reached out and our spotlights touched. I hoped I was still that person Kurt looked to, I really did, but I had a bad feeling that I wasn't.

_"Yeah, when my world is falling apart  
>When there's no light to break up the dark<br>That's when I, I, I, I look at you_

_"When the waves are flooding the shores  
>And I can't find my way home anymore<br>That's when I, I, I, I look at you"_

I sang the beginnings of our lines solo before he joined in. The song was building, and we started to get closer. I wondered if his heart was beating as loudly as mine.

_"You appear—just like a dream to me  
>Just like—kaleidoscope colours that prove to me"<em>

In the second of a breath we could take, I saw Kurt grit his teeth and push through and all I wanted to do was hug him and make him believe that the song was real for me. He got a lot louder and that emotional, painful ring was back to his voice.

We were almost hugging distance, but I knew he was doing that thing I was doing before: talking with the song lyrics. I started to do the _Ohh_'s in time but joined in for the last line, like we had practised with the big notes, but I wasn't thinking of technique or breathing—I was just thinking of him and that I wanted to make him feel all the confusion and stuff in my heart that I was feeling. And, by some miracle, it sounded incredible.

_"All I need  
>Every breath that I breathe<br>Don't you know you're beautiful?"_

During the little instrument break, Kurt did the only thing he could in front of this big audience and held my hand. Our spotlights just touched and he smiled a little smile at me with really watery, crying eyes, and this last chorus felt more like we were celebrating making up instead of painfully reminding what we had done.

I ran on for a long note and Kurt started doing these incredible, powerful things with his voice that reminded me how much his voice affected me and did things to my heart.

_"When the waves are flooding the shores  
>And I can't find my way home anymore<br>That's when I, I look at you_

_"I look at you  
>Yeah<br>Whoa-oh-ohohhhhhh"_

I nearly cried right there on the stage, but we had to finish the last line, much higher than all the rest of the lines.

"_You appear—just like a dream to me"_

And then it was over and I turned sideways into Kurt, turning the handholding into a big, swinging hug. I started saying sorry again, but Kurt turned me back to audience and we curtseyed, Kurt with the edges of his vest, me with my dress.

I had almost forgotten about the audience, but then they cheered and roared and started to do standing ovations. It was all a bit like—wow—in your face, but that wasn't what I had wanted to get. Winning would be nice, but I'd rather lose and have Kurt again.

"See you soon, Britts," Kurt said, obviously not wanting to let go of my hand, but he did, and I ducked off stage when all the boys rushed on, and the lights changed colours and started spinning.

When I got back with all the other girls, there was lots of whispered congratulations and "you did great", but no one really knew how hard or wonderful or painful it really was.

***.***

Initially, I had been hesitant about making two numbers Gaga-themed but when Puck, Finn and Artie had offered to make the instrumental and Mike choreograph the opportunity to have that taken off my hands was simply too good to resist. However, Mike, while working unchecked, had made up some Vocal Adrenaline-worthy choreography that we _still_ weren't completely perfect with. I swear, he just used Gaga's original with some of his own flares. That's partly why I was in the back, to see who messed up and how badly. I knew I would be blamed if _Marry The Night_ went south.

Plus, the song wasn't all _that_ well known. And it wasn't terribly difficult to sex it up and put me in the back or justify it as an anthem, so it was a win-win. It saved us from doing Enrique Iglesias or _Amazing Grace_, at least.

The recording equipment had been "borrowed" from the A/V club, so all of us were free to dance and to draw less attention to ourselves as individuals, especially with the darkened blue lighting. I was not looking forward to when the girls came out; Britts was my partner.

Artie and Sam rolled and walked forward first to sing the beginning while the rest of us started fairly simply.

_"I'm gonna marry the night  
>I won't give up on my life<br>I'm a warrior queen  
>Live passionately tonight<em>

_"I'm gonna marry the dark  
>Gonna make love to the stark<br>I'm a soldier to my own emptiness  
>I am a winner"<em>

Our choreography changed, following the rhythm of Puck's guitar and getting bigger, more dramatic as we spread out on stage.

Artie and Sam sang the three _"I'm gonna marry the night"_s, getting almost growly, before the song blew up into its first chorus and the six girls found their partners and started dancing. It's _hard_ to sing and dance at the same time, especially when you don't know the choreography and you aren't singing lead. I got to sing the long "marry"s but those require a lot of breath and, unfortunately, so did dancing.

I saw Finn, beside me, mess up a few of the arms-in-the-air things, not being quite in synch, but we were not pro dancers and not being that sharp was excusable. Besides, Rachel got him back in line.

At the end of the chorus, the girls were all in a pose with their partners that could almost be called ballroom dancing, rather than Gaga's dropping on the floor. I knew it was a very dramatic pose, highlighted against the background.

However, that changed quickly when Puck and Finn sang the next verse. They didn't go forward into a prominent light; they just stayed in the dancing, moving themselves to the front row. Good luck, Finn.

_"I'm gonna lace up my boots  
>Throw on some leather and cruise<br>Down the streets that I love  
>In my fishnet gloves<br>I'm a sinner_

_"Then I'll go down to the bar  
>But I won't cry anymore<br>I'll hold my whiskey up high  
>Kiss the bartender twice<br>I'm a loser"_

I gritted my teeth and chanced a look at Brittany. This was hardly a time to get emotions involved, but I was hyperaware of her. Everything—her smell, the way her hair kept brushing me when she spun, and most importantly, the fact that I was holding her and looking past her at Mike the whole time.

She had a half-smile on her face, not even close to being out of breath. When she caught me looking, she winked. I blushed and looked back at Mike. From here on in, the song didn't slow down, only picking up more speed and I had a lot of harmonising to do in the bridge.

The next chorus was even more similar to Gaga's original, but we still didn't fall to the floor.

All us guys alternated lines, alternated leads and harmonisation duties for the bridge, but I was practically singing it the whole way through, almost a whole octave higher. And singing high requires a lot of breath, even for me. I could feel the heat from my body begin to melt my hair product. What a time to experiment with brands.

We split the genders, us boys going to one side, the girls on the other, and we came together during the bridge to dance with our partners, and now it was identical to Gaga's choreography. Oy vey. Skinny boys weren't made to do floorwork.

_"Nothing's too cool  
>To take me from you<br>New York is not just a tan that you'll never lose  
>Love is the new denim or black<br>Skeleton guns are wedding bells in the attic  
>Get Ginger ready climb to El Camino front<br>Won't poke holes in the seats with my heels cause that's  
>Where we make love"<em>

Lots of deep breaths from all the guys and we all hit the note I had specified them to hit, working the run like a wave. It sounded pretty damn good, honestly, and I was honestly surprised we had survived it, and since the group that had just gone before us was the ever-precise Warblers singing chart-topping pop, I think the audience loved the rocked-out, sexed-up _Marry The Night._

_"Come on and run  
>Turn the car on and run"<em>

Half us guys sang the long marry's, now standing at the front in a short line, the girls still doing the floorwork. The other half clapped, singing the stuttering marry's, and the audience followed suit.

_"M-m-m-marry m-m-m-marry m-m-m-marry the night  
>Oh m-m-marry m-m-m-marry m-m-m-marry the night<br>Oh m-m-marry m-m-m-marry m-m-m-marry the night"_

One last hard guitar chord and the song was (thankfully) over. As I took in the applause for the second time that night, I wondered how Rachel managed to lead our performances time after time. I mean, I was high after _When I Look at You_, and now I was exhausted, all my energy sucked out by the heinous ideas of Mike Chang, and I still was doing another number—an attitude one with Mercedes, nonetheless. Something like _4 Minutes._

We all got in position again, the rest of the Club being our background dancers, and the familiar bastardised instrumental came on. I was tempted to laugh; Mercedes and I knew Gaga so well we might've messed up the lyrics just because it was a mash-up.

We called it _Born to Just Dance This Way._

But no, Mercedes did the _Born This Way _intro and I did the adlib of _Just Dance_ and it was on. It was easy to alternate and the once we got into the rhythm of the dancing and the way we switched lines and leads, we nearly went on autopilot.

All I was thinking was:_ Two for me, one for both, two for her, one for both, two for me…_

It was a simple formula. Good thing, too.

"_I've had a little bit too much  
>(Oh-oh-oh-oh)<br>All of the people start to rush_

_"Start to rush, babe_

_"A dizzy twister dance  
>Can't find my drink or man<em>

_"Where are my keys, I lost my phone  
>(Oh-oh-oh-oh)<em>

It felt a lot like _4 Minutes_, all the girls dancing with us or beside us, the guys backing them up. It was very fun and sassy and felt anthemic to me. For the next three and a half minutes, I forgot that I was possibly breaking up with my first love or that my heart was in shambles or that my life was cracking before my eyes, and I just enjoyed singing and dancing with a friend.

_"What's going on, on the floor?  
>I love this record, baby, but I can't see straight anymore<em>

_"Keep it cool, what's the name of this club?  
>I can't remember but it's alright, alright"<em>

Everyone, even the back-ups sang/shouted the alright's, and we broke into a subdued mixture of the _Just Dance _dance_, Born This Way_ choreography and Mike's own special brand of genius for the double chorus.

We all sang the _just dance_'s, but Mercedes and I alternated with the other bits and bobs, before we went back to our oh-so-lazy formula. But Mercedes was a belter in the genre of Whitney and Aretha, so we let her have at the _born this way_'s.

_"Just dance. Gonna be okay.  
>Da-doo-doo-doo<br>Just dance. Spin that record babe.  
>Da-doo-doo-doo<br>Just dance. Gonna be okay.  
>Duh-duh-duh-duh<br>Dance. Dance. Dance. J-j-just_

_"Oh there ain't no other way  
>Baby I was born this way<br>Baby I was born this way  
>Oh there ain't no other way<br>Baby I was born this way  
>I'm on the right track, baby<br>I was born this way"_

And it could very well be that my favourite part of all of Gaga's songs, definitely the most fun, was Don't be a drag—just be a queen, which Mercedes and I got to sing/speak together. But it was still fun to hear Mercedes sing, "Wish I could shut my playboy mouth". Ah. Such a classic.

_"Wish I could shut my playboy mouth,  
>How'd I turn my shirt inside out?<em>

_"Inside out, babe_

_"Control your poison, babe  
>Roses have thorns, they say<em>

_"And we're all gettin' hosed tonight"_

There was also a fair bit of good-natured dramatic acting with the lyrics, since neither of us were badass enough to play drunk and get away with it being awesome.

_"What's going on, on the floor?  
>I love this record, baby, but I can't see straight anymore<em>

_"Keep it cool, what's the name of this club?  
>I can't remember but it's alright, alright"<em>

And now I could understand Rachel's apparently superhuman ability to lead us to victories while doing three high-energy numbers, aside from the dancing being less. I had to remind myself if I was given the opportunity again to never, ever give Mike free reign again. When you were leading a big group dance and you were to focal point, you didn't do all that much dance. It was mostly trying to sound good. Everyone else just had to look good.

_"Just dance. Gonna be okay.  
>Da-doo-doo-doo<br>Just dance. Spin that record babe.  
>Da-doo-doo-doo<br>Just dance. Gonna be okay.  
>Duh-duh-duh-duh<br>Dance. Dance. Dance. J-j-just_

_"Oh there ain't no other way  
>Baby I was born this way<br>Baby I was born this way  
>Oh there ain't no other way<br>Baby I was born this way  
>I'm on the right track, baby<br>I was born this way"_

The dancing lost a lot of its energy as Mercedes and I approached what could only be called the raps. Rapping wasn't my thing, but when it was something I believed in as strongly as _Born This Way_, then I could take the bullet. Plus, with Mercedes singing the same lines as I spoke them in a voice at least an octave lower than my normal Mickey Mouse-esque voice, I felt better.

_"Don't be a drag, just be a queen  
>Whether you're broke or evergreen<br>You're black, white, beige, chola descent  
>You're Lebanese, you're orient<br>Whether life's disabilities  
>Left you outcast, bullied, or teased<br>Rejoice and love yourself today  
>'cause baby you were born this way"<em>

I started to sing more, rather than speak, as the instrumental built to a peak and the dancers started up again. And I could almost sense Mercedes preparing for her big belting note of _brave_, where she would leave me to the _Just Dance_ chorus, joining in only to sing the incredible notes of the _dance_'s.

_"No matter gay, straight, or bi,  
>Lesbian, transgendered life,<br>I'm on the right track baby,  
>I was born to survive.<br>No matter black, white or beige  
>Chola or orient made,<br>I'm on the right track baby,  
>I was born to be brave.<em>

_"Just dance. Gonna be okay.  
>Da-doo-doo-doo<br>Just dance. Spin that record babe.  
>Da-doo-doo-doo<br>Just dance. Gonna be okay.  
>Duh-duh-duh-duh<br>Dance. Dance. Dance. J-j-just_

I was flying solo, preparing for the biggest notes I had ever attempted in front of a live audience. No matter how much they were enjoying it now, a bad note from me could ruin it. I joined Mercedes in on her belting, giving the remainder of the Glee Club the last chorus.

_"Oh there ain't no other way  
>Baby I was born this way<br>Baby I was born this way  
>Oh there ain't no other way<br>Baby I was born this way  
>I'm on the right track, baby<br>I was born this way"_

I was, once more, surprised to have made it. Every muscle I had screamed at me from dancing, my vocal chords protested their over-use, and I was fast running out of attitude, but, with the finish line approaching and the audience-clapping finale, I felt like a runner hitting their final high. Unbeatable. Invincible.

_"I was born this way hey!  
>I was born this way hey!<br>I was born this way hey!  
>I'm on the right track baby<br>I was born this way hey!"_

With the abrupt ending, the audience took a second before the screaming ovation. I hadn't even noticed the pack—swarm? flock?—of Warblers sitting off to the left, but Blaine's wolf-like cheer was unmistakeable.

I was enveloped in a crushing hug backstage. I received jumping hugs, screaming hugs, crushing hugs and feeble, exhausted pats on the back. I noted Brittany was the only one who hadn't hugged me.

All the girls were still at maximum energy, bouncing and screeching. A lot of the guys (mostly Puck) threatened to kill me in many imaginative ways, but Mike thanked me for allowing him to choreograph. I didn't have the heart to tell him it would probably be the last time.

The green room was buzzing with conversation, even though we looked like the dead—sweaty and unwilling to even sit up, even the girls crashed. I had collapsed into a chair, resting my head on vanity. I was nearly asleep, lost in a blissful daze, when someone with a blue dress and strawberry shampoo pulled a chair up next to me. She didn't say anything. She just stared at me.

I tried to banish the painful, sinking feeling in my heart. I tried to tell myself that I had to give Brittany some allowance with such things. She didn't have the same standard of morals; she trusted freely and gave her heart almost more easily; and Santana was a lying, conniving, bitchy skank.

On all fronts, I failed.

I sat up and saw Brittany, picking at the crystals at the hem of her dress. A few had fallen off; KrazyGlu not all it's cracked up to be. Her head hung low and she had chewed most of her lipstick off.

With such a pathetic sight in front of me, much of my anger melted away, leaving me only with sadness. And sadness you can't project at anyone, neither can pain.

I surprised her when I took her hands in mine, away from her attack on the fake gemstones. I brushed off the ones that were hanging by the last threads of glue.

"Can we forget this ever happened and just try to be like before?" asked Brittany very quietly.

"Sure."

_I'm good at pretending._

"Did you forgive me?"

I stopped brushing the gems and bit the inside of my cheek. Is knowing it isn't your fault the same as forgiving?

"Yeah, I did."

Brittany launched herself at me. I felt her warm body fit to mine when she hugged me, her scent filling my nostrils, and her arms wrapped tight around my neck, as though to say that she would never let me go. And when I put my arms around her waist and kissed her bare shoulder, the rest of my sadness turned into something very bittersweet that clogged my throat and burned in my eyes. I just knew I was back home in her arms, that if I never left I wouldn't have to face Santana and what she was putting me and Brittany through, I wouldn't have to admit that I was still hurt and sad, I wouldn't even have to say that on some level I blamed Brittany.

The lights flashed at us, signalling that the judges had made their decision and we had to go back outside.

I let go.

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>I would love some feedback on a reasonable amount of time for Kurttany to return to normalwithout emotional distress, or what would be some good ways for Kurt to deal with it.**

**As always, thank you very much for reading. :D  
><strong>


	16. I Will Be

**Disclaimer**: Their original songs sucked. So I didn't use them. :)

**This is my adaption of the episodes s02e17: A Night of Neglect.  
><strong>

**There is next to nothing in this episode. I've tried to rework it to have more stuff, but this is still a short, stunted little chapter. But it's still pretty important for the storyline in terms of Kurttany.  
><strong>

**Kurt's Song, _I Will Be_: watch?v=g7vWPRw9fgQ&feature=plcp  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>*.*<strong>

I felt like shit and I knew it showed. No matter what I said to Brittany or what I felt like when I was around the little innocent angel, I felt unloved. I felt—literally—cheated. Cheated out of a lot of things—monogamy was a big thing. Exclusive access to her heart and love. It wasn't wrong to want to be the only person she loved, she shared—

I was going in circles again.

"_New York, New York,"_ I sang to the bathroom mirror, my voice bouncing pleasantly back at me, ringing off the tiles in a falsetto.

Even winning and going to Nationals couldn't take the edge off. New York, _the_ place to be. Broadway, school, it was where I wanted to go to in order to leave Ohio in the dust. But I couldn't feel excited. It was true: the world was useless without someone to share it with.

_Yeah, if she doesn't share it with someone else._

After the success of Regionals, Mr. Schuester had given me control of Nationals, once again. If we were going to dance like that again, we need to practise dancing with bright lights. At the venue, they were killer.

_Just one step at a time,_ I told myself. _Now you need to sort your hair out._

I found my comb and mechanically went through the motions of making my hair wave out, wetting the comb to get rid of the hairspray, applying the spray again.

_Now you need to brush your teeth._

I sang the Charlie Chaplin classic _Smile_ in my head while I brushed my teeth to count off the two minutes. There was no energy in my mental voice, just an automatic tone, as though I was reading the lyrics.

A fist pounded on the poor door, almost curving it in. "Kurt!"

It was only Finn. I recovered from my mild heart attack and dislodged my toothbrush from my throat. I shouted back that I'd be out in a minute. I spat out my toothpaste swill and left. There was little more I could do. My nails were beyond hope—chewed to the quick, rough, jagged and lacking their usual lustre—my skin was suffering from my forgetfulness of my skincare routine, and my eyebrows, though in need of a good plucking, didn't even pique my interest.

"We need a third bathroom," was all I said.

Finn didn't hear the dejected tone in my voice, instead slamming the door and saying, "Kurt, even the girls don't have this much crap in their bathrooms!"

_Now you need to smile and make smalltalk with Dad._

***.***

I was a fool if I thought Mercedes wouldn't notice.

"What's up, Tinkerbell?" was always the first thing she always said when I sat down beside her when class started. This semester, we had a first period of Pre-Cal together. Typically, we would launch into a rapid, vivid discussion of whichever show had aired that night. In springtime, there was a show every night of the week. That night, it had been _Big Brother_. I hadn't watched it.

"What did you think of Jess last night?" asked Mercedes, idly flipping through her math textbook. Math wasn't her strong suit either and I was prepared to offer help to divert attention from what was clearly un-Kurt-like behaviour.

"She was okay," I said absently. "How're you doing with the homework?"

"Uh… Jess is a he," said Mercedes suspiciously. She laid a hand on my forehead. "You feeling okay?" she said jokingly.

I waved the hand away, annoyed. "_Yes_, I'm doing just fine, thank you."

"What's gotten into you?" She eyed my sweater. "It's, like, a thousand degrees outside and you're all bundled up like it's snowman building season."

"Got chilly," I said irritably, digging out my own textbook.

"Got slushied?" asked Mercedes shrewdly.

I nodded. "Blue raspberry met red shirt. The results aren't nice."

"What about your Emergency Slushie Kit?" asked Mercedes, the majority of her suspicion eased.

It consisted of a seasonal spare outfit, and hair and skin supplies. I hadn't even really bothered to go through the routine of fixing my hair again or scrubbing the dye from my sensitive skin.

"Forgot to stock it," I said simply.

Mercedes closed her book on my fingers. "What's the matter with you? Did the bullies get under your skin again?"

I waited a beat before, "Girl troubles."

She softened. "I'm a girl," said Mercedes obviously. "I can probably help you."

I shook my head and forced a smile that was more a grimace. "Nah. It's just my battle to fight."

Mercedes rubbed my arm and turned in her seat. "Don't say that, Kurt." I think she could sense that Brittany and I were teetering on the edge of an explosive break-up. "Whatever went wrong, I'm sure you'll find your ways back to each other."

I couldn't stand to look into those caring, concerned eyes and lie point-blank, so I looked down and thanked her for the support. "Did you see Artie, Tina, Mike and Brittany on _SmartyPants _last week?" I said, falsely cheery. The vision of Brittany surrounding her microphone and buzzer with Dots in a patterned ring, measuring the distance between them with the width of the box put a genuine smile on my face.

After a moment, Mercedes took her hand from me. "No, actually. It does kinda suck that now we're selling an absolute shit-load of taffy to pay for _two_ trips."

***.***

Lord Tubbington and Charity were cuddled up together, purring in my bed. Artie had taken me to the library—this big place with lots of shelves and books and comfy chairs—and gave me a book bigger than Lord Tubbington all on cat diseases. It started to make me feel really depressed to be reading about all these dangerous illnesses that my pretty kitties could get, but, then again, it was like protecting them, so I would know exactly what it was if they got it.

Even if it was only something that big wild jungle cats got.

I pulled a blanket around me like a cape and sat with the book open in my lap, with my phone right beside me, just in case Kurt started texting me. If it was Santana, I told myself I would just say I was in the bathroom. Then she'd go away. I didn't want to talk to her. She was the reason that Kurt wasn't Kurt when he talked to me. His eyes didn't smile when his lips did.

Even when we won, there was lots of jumping and hugging and cheering, and for a minute I thought things were all better.

This was making me super depressed.

My phone suddenly lit up, but I could see the message was from **:[** , so I didn't reply. Santana could beg and plead all she wanted, I wasn't going to her house tonight or any other night.

***.***

"—and we can see tickets. It's the perfect place to practise for Nationals…"

"I'm not diggin' this," said Mercedes blankly.

I shrugged, texting behind my crossed legs. "Neglected artists is a tough and boring theme." Blaine was going through a thing with Rachel. She was becoming unbearable (clearly, Blaine didn't know her yet) and was bumming him out with all her talk of Nationals. Fixing his relationship was way easier than fixing my own. An apology, warning that Rachel ought to shut her mouth about competition, a romantic kiss after a sweet drive-in movie date and they'd be fine.

"I think you should try and make things better with Brittany," said Mercedes in a low voice. "You're faker than Kim Kardashian when you talk to her, you know. That's no way to fix… whatever needs to be fixed."

Frankly, I thought I was doing a good job acting like everything was fine.

"Just be real. Cry or do whatcha need to do."

"Please," I said sharper than I meant to. "Just stop. I can fix this by myself."

Rebuffed, Mercedes sat back, sighing. "Fine. Take a night out, talk things out."

I still stared at my phone, even though Blaine had stopped and said goodbye a while ago. The last time we wanted some private time it had been soured by Santana. Besides, talking things out without tears wasn't going to happen. And if I started crying, I knew Brittany would, too, and I couldn't stand to do that to her again.

"That's what I'd do," shrugged Mercedes, turning her attention back to Mr. Schuester.

He let us work on our benefit concert setlist on our own. As far as I knew, Tina was doing some Asian artist, Mike was dancing, Mercedes singing a little Aretha, and Rachel was getting her fangs back with _My Heart Will Go On._ Although obviously humbled, her and Mercedes got into a scrap over who would get the closing song. After a second, Rachel backed off as everyone started to gang up on her. She was like one of those tigers in the zoo who don't remember how to hunt anymore.

At last, I stopped pretending to text and pulled up a chair. "Rachel, you should get some shred of spotlight. Mercedes, you got to sing lead with me at Regionals."

Both girls gave me this _look. _Well, they were close to a catfight and I interrupted them, so I guess I should've expected it. Just when Mercedes was about to retort, Mike interrupted.

"That's not our only problem," said Mike grimly, snapping his cell phone shut. "Remember Sunshine? That girl Rachel sent to a crackhouse?"

"Yeah," we all chorused.

"Well, someone"—he looked at the ex-Cheerios—"put our concert on Facebook and she wants to sing."

"No," Rachel and I said at the same time.

"Absolutely not," I said firmly. "Vocal Adrenaline made it to Nationals, too. They're gonna wanna scope us out."

" 'Scope us out'? Easy, James Bond," said Sam, doing what I believed was a Sean Connery impression.

Tina clicked around on her Blackberry. "She's got six hundred Twitter followers, and that would bring our ticket sales up to six hundred and four," she said flatly. "Wait, and she wants the grand finale."

Everyone looked at me, and I wondered when I had become the bona fide leader of the team. Finchel's pictures were still in the Thunderclap. Eyes flicking between the expectant teens, I threw my hands up.

"Sure, fine," I said, my voice unexpectedly high. "Let her sing."

Tina took that as an order and her black painted nails flew over the tiny keyboard.

And after another, Rachel and Mercedes took their stuff and stormed out in hissy _hurmphs_, each through a different door. The Club had dissolved again into casual setlist chatter, so I followed Mercedes.

She was speed walking through the hall, attempting to put on her jacket, but one of the sleeves had kinked itself in a weird fold. I caught up with her and straightened the sleeve.

"Tha—Oh." Her voice changed when she saw it was me. "See you around."

"What's wrong?" I asked, jogging to keep up with her.

Mercedes rounded on me before I could even finish the word. "You just gave me the middle spot, and I won't say nothing to them in there, but giving Rachel her mojo back—"

"—is exactly what she needs," I said, hard. "Rachel's been nearly a doormat since I beat her. We can't win Nationals with twelve superstars and a doormat."

"We can't win with a tyrant either," pointed out Mercedes.

"Then we find a middle ground," I said firmly, moving to hitch up my bag before realising I left it in the choir room. I crossed my arms behind my back.

Mercedes looked down, but when she looked back at me her eyes lost their hardness and she licked her lips. There was now a set in her jaw that looked like she was biting back a lump in her throat. "I just wanna shine," she said quietly. "I know I got a half-chance with Regionals, but I want a whole spotlight, just once. One time. I had it, and then it was gone. You could talk to them," she said with sudden hope.

"No, no, no, no," I said, already going back to the choir room.

"They listen to you, fairy-boy," said Mercedes, catching up.

"God knows why," I mumbled.

"Because they know how good you are and, more importantly, they like you. I know you've got a lot on your plate right now."

I put my hand on the choir room door and looked back at her.

"But, please, don't throw it away. I know you've got some kinda point in there about Rachel being a tyrant, but you aren't that kinda person."

I pushed the door to the choir room and sat back down, listening to the endless gossip and setlist chatter. Brittany was sticking her tongue out slightly as she texted, no doubt trying to not misspell anything. I sat beside her and, by habit, put an arm over her chair.

"Blaine wants to come," said Britts, her eyes frozen on the iPod.

I shrugged. "Invite him," I said mildly.

How had I gotten responsible for Glee Club?

***.***

Kurt looked like he was working, even though it was the night of the benefit. Everything was going fine. Sunshine's twitter followers had RSVP'd and everyone was practising in the choir room, buzzing and _WhoooOOOOoooOOOOOooo_-ing their notes.

I felt like Kurt was ignoring me, but it was different than when Santana ignored me. Santana took the long ways and didn't go to her locker, and growling and hissing at me when she had to be in the same room with me. Kurt was just busy and didn't happen to be near me. Honestly, it was better than most things he could've done: he could've broken up with me, or yelled, or ignored me meanly.

I flattened my skirt out and sat down beside him, adjusting my ponytail. On special days, Santana used to do my hair to make sure it was even and straight. I tried not to think of her.

Kurt smiled tiredly and kissed me lightly. "Good evening, Britts. Is this good?" He handed me the setlist.

_I Follow Rivers – Tina  
>Bubble Toes – Mike (dance)<br>Turning Tables – Miss Holiday  
>Dream a Little Dream of Me – Artie &amp; Sam<br>Our Day Will Come – Santana & Quinn & Brittany_

_I Will Be – Kurt  
>Ain't No Way – Mercedes<br>My Heart Will Go On – Rachel  
>All By Myself – Sunshine<em>

I nodded, seeing Rachel's name in the bottom in Kurt's loopy little handwriting. Sunshine didn't really count. She wasn't one of us. "Rachel gets the last song?"

After a minute, Kurt nodded. "I don't know. I think so. I—I'll post it and see how much shit I get."

He got up and stuck it on a music stand. Pretty soon, one by one, everyone took a look at it. Mercedes frowned and rolled her eyes, but held her hands up in surrender.

Kurt sat back down beside me and watched the others. "Finn and Puck are going to make sure the right lighting programs and CD tracks play during the right song."

I swung my legs between the metal legs of my chair. "Okays."

All of a sudden, Quinn appeared in front of me. "We should have one last practice run through it."

Reluctantly, I left Kurt and started singing with Santana and Quinn. Quinn was going to stand in the middle, mostly so that I didn't have to be beside Santana. Everyone, of course, didn't think there was anything that wrong.

Then Tina ran in, her straight hair all frizzy and diagonal. "Guys, I was just in the auditorium and there's, like, six people out there."

Mike tapped on his phone. "And Sunshine just said she's not coming—and neither are her followers, but I guess we figured that one out."

Kurt, very obviously, knocked Sunshine off the setlist. Now Rachel was last.

"I say we blow this whole thing and hit the arcade," said Artie, high-fiving Mercedes.

"No, screw that." Finn stood up—all one million feet of him—and he went in the middle. "These people paid to hear us sing, and the show's got to go all over—or something."

Rachel touched Finn's arm and it looked like she got power from that. "The show must go on. Finn's right, you guys. Whether there's six or six thousand, we still have it give it our all."

"Easy to say when you're the star," said Mercedes meanly.

"It's a good principle, but, in reality, we should get to working on our Nationals performance," said Kurt fairly, leaning over the music stand.

"I just wanna sing," said Tina sadly. "I don't really care how many are out there either. Just… a solo."

I nodded. "Then go. You're up first, and I know that if no one else wants to go, then we just leave."

Tina smiled faintly before leaving with Finn and Puck and the band to the auditorium. Smiling, Kurt crossed off Tina's name when we first heard her voice. The rest of us prepared, singing and talking, before Tina came back in, crying.

Mr. Schuester and Mike comforted her as she wailed and fountains burst from her eyeballs, talking about the hecklers and the people who yelled and shouted at her when she sang. "This is the worst I've ever felt in my entire life!"

Everyone was sad and felt bad for her, and we looked like hard statues, blank and stunned.

"I didn't think it was possible for people to hate us even more," said Artie, breaking the silence with a sledgehammer. "We're calling this off."

Mr. Schuester backed up from Tina. "Guys, I hate to say it but I think we have to buck up. Tina, I'm sorry you had to go through that, but it's actually a really good lesson for us."

Tina sobbed loudly.

"That's a part of show business, guys," said Mr. Schue, raising his hands. He wasn't being very teacherly, I thought. Teachers and adults were meant to fix things; throw out the mean hecklers. Besides, it was _our_ place. "Sometimes people can be really mean. What if we have an unfriendly crowd at Nationals? And I'm sure there's going to be some Vocal Adrenaline hecklers out there, too."

"You still want to sing?" I asked Quinn quietly.

She had one hand on her cross necklace. "I don't know. I saw those guys tear down Tina and—well—even if it will be us three again… No, I don't want to." She sighed and went to sit down beside Finn.

"I think I know a way to shut up the hecklers for a round or two," said Mr. Schue sneakily.

Suddenly, Mercedes and Quinn were shooed out to the auditorium with massive baskets of saltwater taffy.

Mike straightened his vest, and Tina dried her eyes. They had some secret Asian moments, a little kiss that made Mike's lips really red, and then he went out to dance with a mop. He had practised forever, and it was really awesome, like he flowed with the music. All of us stayed back in the choir room, listening for the hecklers and their heckling, but it never came.

Mike came back, out of breath, carrying a mop with a dress, his eyes big and bright. Everyone congratulated him and hugged him. Even Tina started smiling again.

I swayed in my seat to the intermission music. I stared at the music list again. Just after a cranky Santana told Mr. Schue that we had backed out, Artie and Sam did the same. And then Kurt quietly crossed himself off.

Miss Holiday was up, and from what we could hear she rocked the house. It was fantastic. And then Mr. Schue came back, all sad and stuff, and I thought she didn't do all that good.

Mr. Schue looked around at us. "All right, who's next?"

"Kurt," said Sam, looking back at him.

Kurt gave a little cough. "Vocal problems."

I frowned. That was so not true. He was singing in the car all the way over.

"Then Sam, Artie?" tried Mr. Schuester.

Sam rolled his shoulder around and around. "Injury from football."

Clearly not impressed, Mr. Schue made a face, then asked who _would_ go on. Rachel and Mercedes had a stare-down and Mercedes clearly won. Reluctantly, Rachel put up her hand.

"Mr. Schue, I'll be glad to take the lead." She smoothed out her skirt and stormed out, giving the closing song to Mercedes. Mercedes went for a highfive with Kurt, but he left her hanging.

In a few minutes, Rachel's powerful voice streamed through the walls and the familiar _WhoooOOOoooOOO_ of the _Titanic_ theme song came in. People started to leave one by one, until almost all of us were in the auditorium, watching Rachel be Rachel again.

Even though she was a mean troll that belonged under a bridge, I hadn't really noticed how much we had crushed Rachel with our rebellion against her tyranny of Glee Club. She, like, exploded with all this emotion that came off her in waves and oceans.

We all took seats in the back row, watching the rest of her performance. It was kinda nice to hear Rachel sing something that really went with her voice. It sounded good, for a change.

And then it was over and Sam, who was MC-ing, went and announced that the show was over… even though Mercedes hadn't sung her big Aretha Franklin song.

We went backstage to find Rachel all lit up and Mercedes smiling, arms around each other in a big bear hug. That must've been one _massive_ apology. Now the only thing I had to worry about was the big smart people competition. Artie said he'd strangle Lord Tubbington if I tried to answer a question.

***.***

The security of the jingle of my keys kept me calm. Once people started dropping like flies, I thought that could've been the excuse I needed, but I just needed a small cough. Honestly, Leona Lewis wasn't all _that_ well known in America, but I couldn't sing _I Will Be_ in front of everyone when I knew Brittany was hearing it, and knew why I wanted to sing it.

Everyone was cleaning up their costumes and makeup; the jittery, after-show atmosphere was alight and conversation flowed freely. Blaine popped in, too, but Rachel, almost radiating confidence, didn't welcome him as warmly as I would've thought.

I kept an eye on Brittany all night. She still wasn't nearly as bubbly or involved as she used to be; even her hair seemed to lose its sparkle. Her head was almost always bowed, her voice was quieter. It started to carve away at the hole in my heart, because I knew, even if I was in the right to be angry, that I was causing that.

Although the Unholy Trinity hadn't performed, they were in a huddle in the corner, talking about girl things. Brittany broke apart to put their costumes back up on the rolling hanger, and I caught her before she went back to them.

"I'd like to talk to you once everyone's gone."

Her eyes widened, but she nodded anyways, smiling slightly before returning to her ex-Cheerio friends. That smile didn't reach her eyes.

It took longer than I thought for everyone to get their jackets on and leave. And, of course, everyone wanted to talk to Blaine, see how he, who was no longer our competition, liked our singing and dancing. Eventually, though, hugs and kisses exchanged, my Escalade was the only car in the parking lot. Even Mr. Schue left with Miss Holiday. The school was a little spooky, with the dull yellow lights casting shadows in the hallway, while the choir room was almost too bright with the horrid fluorescents.

Brittany sat alone on the piano bench, her legs tucked under her, watching me as I fumbled with the mixed CD for the benefit.

"Right, Britts." I clapped my hands, looking at her forehead. It was a trick I had learned: it made most people think that you were looking them in the eye.

"Kurt," Brittany imitated my anxious voice.

"I chose a bit of a stupid song to sing at the benefit because it was one I really just wanted to sing to you," I said in a rush.

Brittany didn't look the least bit shocked. She looked over at the choir room's boombox behind me, then back at me. "I don't know the song," she said apologetically.

I shook my head. "Doesn't matter."

After another second of gathering myself, I clicked _play_. There was a split second of everyone else's songs before I scanned to mine, and then there was no turning back. Mostly because there was very little intro before the first lines. I had transposed the key upwards, into my natural register. I wasn't sure if I could've sustained anything more.

_"There's nothing I could say to you  
>Nothing I could ever do to make you see<br>What you mean to me  
>All the pain, the tears I cried<br>Still, you never said goodbye  
>And now I know<br>How far you'd go"_

Britts started to squirm in her seat. Her head fell down lower and her hair flipped over her face. In vain, she tried to push it back behind her ears without raising her head.

_"I know I let you down  
>But it's not like that now<br>This time I'll never  
>Let you go" <em>

I think Brittany got that this was about her, more than me trying to make amends for myself. I wanted for us to put Santana and her manipulation behind us and just try to pick us up where we had fallen.

_"I will be  
>All that you want<br>And get myself together  
>'Cause you keep me from falling apart<br>Now, all my life  
>I'll be with you forever<br>To get you through the day  
>And make everything OK" <em>

Brittany crossed her arms, pulling the sleeves of her jacket around her. She curled into a little ball on piano bench and I was worried she would fall off. However, if I sat beside her and kept singing—well, that would be too corny, even for me.

_"I thought that I had everything  
>I didn't know what life could bring<br>But now I see honestly  
>You're the one thing I got right<br>The only one I let inside  
>Now I can't breathe<br>'Cause you're here with me_

_"And if I let you down  
>I'd turn it all around<br>'Cause I would never  
>Let you go"<em>

Then I decided it wouldn't be all _that_ corny. At first I couldn't force my feet forward, then I nearly tripped over them. But the end result was the same: beside Britts on the piano bench. I missed a little, but that didn't matter.

_ "'Cause you keep me from falling apart  
>All my life<br>I'll be with you forever  
>To get you through the day<br>And make everything OK _

I turned her hair over. If someone did that to me, I would've flipped, but I didn't think Brittany had the willpower to do any flipping out. When I saw the first tears trickle out, my voice cracked and notched up more than a few notes.

_"Without you  
>I can't breathe<br>I'm not gonna ever ever let you leave  
>You're all I've got<br>You're all I want _

_"'Cause without you  
>I don't know what I'd do<br>I could never ever live a day without you  
>Here with me do you see<br>You're all I need _

I just let the instrumental play out the last choruses. Brittany didn't need to hear anymore. It was an awkward position, but I think Brittany was determined to hug me. We both nearly slipped off the bench, but she still buried her head in my jacket. I could hear and feel the sorries she was saying.

"We both need to make this work," I said quietly. The shuddering girl almost wrenched tears from my own eyes. "To forget Santana and—and all that, to remember before."

Brittany nodded but still didn't look at me. She stayed there for a while, but I gently moved her so she was sitting upright beside me. She wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her sleeve. Mercedes song's instrumental was playing now. I moved around to get in front of her and kissed her. Normally, she initiated any kind of contact. A few seconds and her arms were around my neck again.

Instead of apologising again and again, Brittany just said, "Thank you."

***.***

* * *

><p><strong>As always, thank you very much for reading. :D<br>_Born This Way_ is taking a little longer, and I'm sorry, but we're getting to a point where there's next to nothing to work with, which means I'm needing to get creative.  
><strong>


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